WHAT A WAYWARD LORD NEEDS, page 7
part #2 of LORDS OF HAPPENSTANCE Series
There was a certain truth in that. He gave her a curt nod. “Understood.”
Her grin seemed genuine as she gazed up at him, and Bentley had the distinct impression she was the perfect height, short enough for him to tuck her head beneath his chin if he so desired. In the event he left professional courtesy behind. Which he wouldn’t do. He wasn’t like Archewyne or Trewellain. Women wouldn’t hold sway over him or his orders. Good thing he was a man the fairer sex didn’t give a second glance to. “Besides, I cannot leave you alone in jungle.” Gently, she removed a hairy tarantula from his shoulder and allowed it to climb her arm with nary a flinch. “You simply wouldn’t survive for very long.”
Oh, God. I hate this country so much. He gave into a full body shiver and more or less stumbled out of the hut with a shout that mingled with her laughter.
Chapter Six
Day Fifty
Thursday
October 24, 1822
We are not returning to London.
Two ink blots obscured a few choice words of vulgarity.
In light of the evidence Cora has told me, I’ve deemed it necessary to push deeper into the river system on this insane quest of hers. Elton, if you’re reading this, you’d better pray I haven’t been eaten by some hungry predator, killed by a blow dart dipped in poison, or perished from a bite of a strange insect.
Remember, when you finally land your first solo mission, that women are sneaky, and they’ll use whatever means necessary to sway you to their side. Even honesty, which is odd since after living with Mother’s tantrums, it has the exact opposite effect of her methods.
Also, my friendly guide Santiago has left us to return to his pregnant wife. I must say I miss his hopeful chatter and wish him Godspeed on his journey.
Bentley spent the night camped in the tent they’d brought with them and set up near Lady Trammel’s hut. Gibbs slept inside that weak defense as well, while Manuel and Major Anderson passed the night around the fire, each taking turns at watch.
At dawn, he roused and dressed. The world wasn’t any more appealing in morning’s light, but this was his lot currently, and he’d get through it somehow. He met the lady by the fire, where she sipped at a cup of what smelled like rich, strong coffee. His stomach grumbled. What he wouldn’t do for a proper English breakfast and a copy of The Times. The little things were missed most of all. “Good morning, Lady Trammel.” He nodded at her. “Fellows.” He grinned at the men, who each wore cheeky smiles.
“I wondered when you’d wake. Most men don’t sleep so late,” Cora said with a smile as she passed him a tin cup full of the same brew she enjoyed. “This will keep you alert until we stop again down river. At present, we are out of sugar and milk.”
“Thank you. This is fine enough.” Bentley made a show of looking toward the sunrise as the others scurried about camp, breaking down the tent and rolling pallets. The enticing aroma of fish roasting on the fire wafted to his nose and his stomach gave off another growl. “It’s barely dawn. Did you even sleep?” He took a sip of the dark beverage. The rich, sharp aroma of the coffee wafted about his face, and as the warmth trickled down his throat, he sighed. Who knew such comfort could come from a simple thing?
“I did, but my mind didn’t quiet, so it wasn’t a restorative session.” She peeked at him from over the rim of her cup, interest in her blue eyes. “How about you?”
He shrugged. “More or less. Suffice it to say I haven’t yet accustomed myself to the night sounds along the river. Every bump, movement or cry wakes me.”
The more he attempted to keep his focus off her, the more his gaze continued to traverse her form. How old was she? Too young to be a stepmother, he assumed, for he’d not met many, but she’d kept her face and figure remarkably well in the jungle. Regardless, she was marvelous in her leather gear and her breeches and boots, looking as fresh as if she’d just stepped outside a townhouse, while he was scruffy, smelly and sweaty, the very epitome of bedraggled waif. The weapons belt slung low about her hips drew his notice—a revolver, a dagger and a rope were among her tools, as was a leather pouch. What was concealed there? Despite his best intentions, his focus slipped to the vee of her thighs, and his pulse kicked up. Though it might be more practical to ditch the skirting in a jungle, it did absolutely nothing to calm the sudden surge of desire coursing through his veins to see the outline of her legs so clearly. Dear Lord, she was an eyeful, and he really needed to stop ogling her as if he’d never seen a woman before.
Bentley cleared his throat and forced his attention back to her face. “Yes, the river and I simply haven’t become one. I don’t know if we ever will be.”
A tiny grin curved her lips. “The jungle is noisier. Best learn to block out the sound. Otherwise, the journey will seem excruciatingly long.” Then she met his gaze. A knowing light twinkled in her eyes. “Like what you see, Lord Castlereagh?” she asked in a low-pitched whisper.
“No.” Yes. “Er, I mean, I wasn’t looking. Ah, I was, but not in the way you assume.” How the devil had he fallen into such a mire?
“You are a terrible liar.” Her grin widened. “I thought that was a skill a king’s agent needed for the job?”
Heat crept up the back of his neck. “It largely depends on the case.” He took refuge in sipping at the strong brew in his cup.
“I’ll wager it does, but let me tell you a little secret.” If possible, she lowered her voice further, and the throaty tone went straight to his stones. “I don’t mind if you look. Here in the jungle, it’s a novelty I’ve not been afforded much. Manuel means well, but he considers me like a relative. Rarely gives me any sort of attention. Other men, like the major, completely pass me over, ignoring me simply because I’m a woman.”
“And my valet, Gibbs?”
“I am not sure about him. He watches me, but with the air of one who expects me to kill you all.” She giggled and indulged in another sip. “It’s rather nice to have an admirer. Have you decided about our pressing matters?”
“Yes.” The word was pulled from a tight throat, and to hide his confusion, he gulped the remainder of his coffee then was obliged to cough and sputter from the heated liquid. “We head to Maripa and reassess our situation from there,” he gasped. But damn if the slight pain didn’t calm his reaction to her. “If the situation grows too dangerous, we turn back.”
“Agreed.” She took another sip. “That village is slightly south of the river. We’ll ask if anyone has seen the flowers.”
“Without making it too obvious,” he concluded. “Perhaps you should do that bit. It would appear odd if I did since I’m obviously not a part of the landscape like you or even Manuel.”
She gestured toward the two canoes that rested nearby on the river bank, down a number since Santiago had taken the third. “We should finish packing, make use of the light while we can. We have a day’s journey ahead. Be sure to eat breakfast. One never knows, on the river, when the next meal will be.”
“Right.” He handed her the tin cup. “Thank you for the respite.” Their fingers brushed, and a jolt of something danced up his arm to his elbow.
“Well, it is a communal coffee pot. You’re welcome to meet me there whenever you’d like.” Then she laughed when he went to help with breaking down the tent.
After eight hours spent in a canoe in the grueling, hot sun, dodging snakes, water reptiles and all manner of bugs and insects, reaching Maripa seemed an impossibility. Cora traveled in one canoe with Manuel with the bulk of their supplies, while Bentley spent his time with Gibbs, who didn’t have much to say, and the major, who was equally taciturn. That was fine with him, for he jotted notes in his journal, happy to have something to do. Along the way, the lady had pointed out interesting flora and fauna, regaled them with local customs and stories, and generally did most of the talking. He didn’t mind that either, for her voice was pleasant and her dulcet tones promoted a bit of calm in him. She took the trip in stride as if it were perfectly normal to travel with a contingent of strange men through even stranger country.
Bentley admired her fearlessness in the face of the unknown, especially since his muscles remained tight with worry and unease. When the canoes ran aground, he stood, stretched his cramped body and then sprang out, splashing over the few steps between conveyances in order to assist Cora from her canoe with an outstretched hand. “Allow me.”
She sent him an arched look. “There’s no need for chivalry, Lord Castlereagh.” She yanked back her hand lest their fingers touch. “I’ve managed by myself along the Orinoco for over nine months. There wasn’t a man about when I needed one. Now, I can take care of myself.”
The unspoken message lingered in the air: she didn’t need him and never would. Even here in the jungles, far removed from polite society, he couldn’t find anyone who may wish to rely upon him. Bloody, rubbish luck.
“It means nothing. I thought assistance from a damned canoe would be a nice touch you might have missed being so far removed from society.” When he reached for her hand, she jerked hers away and then inevitably lost her balance in the rocking canoe while Manuel glanced between them with rounded eyes as he kept his seat with ease.
“Oh, you annoying king’s man!” As her canoe pitched onto its side, she clutched at his arm.
He lost purchase on the slippery, muddy banks and grabbed at her hands in an effort to keep them both upright. To no avail. Bentley’s feet slid out from under him, and combined with her precarious position, they both went down, tumbling into the shallow water, him with a curse and her with a squeal. A mild splash accompanied them.
When he climbed out of the muddy water, dripping and more than slightly annoyed, he wasn’t inclined to offer her assistance this time. Instead, he watched with narrowed eyes as she struggled onto the bank, as wet and muddy as he. When she finally stood sopping before him, her hands firmly planted on her rounded hips, he said, “How refreshing that you’re such an independent woman.”
The whole party erupted into laughter. The sound dispelled the growing tension, and Cora shot him a grin that wiped away his ire.
“Touché, my lord.” She ran her hands down the front of her person, brushing off the worst of the mud. “I was wrong. Chivalry does have a place in the world, no matter where that place is.” Then she wrung the water from her braid. “Sadly, if we don’t wash off the mud, we’ll attract flies and other stinging insects.” So saying, Cora waded back into the river up to her chest, executed a quick, vigorous scrubbing and then returned to their position, more wet than before.
Bentley stared. The water made her linen shirt nearly transparent. It clung to her upper body and arms, the healthy peach color of her skin showing through. Too bad the leather vest she wore prevented him from seeing the treat of the wet fabric against her breasts. He mentally smacked himself and cleared his throat. He had no business wondering about her naked form. “You want me to go back into the water?”
“Oh, most definitely, unless you wish to be eaten alive by insects.” She cocked an eyebrow. “Plus, as the mud dries, it stinks, especially here where it’s not mixed with the nutrient-rich clay we’re after.” Cora pointed. “Go on. You cannot visit the market looking like a mess.”
“Fine.” Annoyed, even more so when his valet snickered as he helped to offload their luggage and supplies, Bentley made his way into the water, that was warm and murky, which would conceal all manner of deadly things. Knowing she watched, he efficiently relieved himself of as much of the mud as he could, wishing all the while it was cool, clean water and that he had a bar of soap and his razor. Or that he could shed his shirt and waistcoat. Would she enjoy looking upon his bared torso?
Good God, man. Remove such thoughts from your mind. She is not for you in any capacity. She’s your damned mission. That’s all.
When he returned, the mud on the riverbank was no less slippery, and he lost his footing, stumbled, fell, and hit his head on the rounded edge of a canoe. A glancing blow to be sure, but it hurt like a demon nonetheless. “Damnation.” Pain exploded through his forehead. The telltale trickle of blood eased down, dribbling between his eyes and down the slope of his nose.
And he was muddy again.
“Bentley, are you all right?” Cora hurried to his position. She tugged him to his feet, staring into his face. She raised a hand to his hair and brushed a few locks from his brow. “The wound is bleeding and needs immediate care.”
He shook off her fleeting touch. If she didn’t need his help, he wouldn’t accept hers. “It is fine. I have to wash off the mud.”
“Yes, you do, but first let me attend the wound.”
Panic shot down his spine. “I’ll probably contract an infection and die out here in this horrible place. No one will find my body, nor will they care. Mother will rant and rave, tell my brother he cannot go on missions since I couldn’t keep myself alive.”
“Hush. It’s not as bad as all of that.” Cora snorted, but the calm in her tone soothed him. “Besides, complaining is unbecoming.” She tugged at his hand. “I’ll stitch you up before anything dire occurs.”
Gibbs openly chuckled now. “It seems you are not suited for the rigors of your position, my lord.”
“Do shut up, Gibbs.” Bentley glared at him.
But the valet wasn’t finished. “The lady is correct. You must attend that wound lest the scent of blood attracts predators.”
The panic turned to full-out horror. “Will that happen?” It would be his luck if a panther or jaguar came prowling about. “Oh God, do crocodiles seek out blood?”
“No,” she assured him. “At least not immediately.” She snickered. “But crocs are opportunistic hunters. If there is food, and they want it, they will go after it. The cats come are nocturnal… unless they’re really hungry.”
Bentley huffed. He pinned his valet with a look. “Might as well build a fire, Gibbs. Sunset will come swiftly, and we’ll need the protection.” He’d need a bracing cup of tea liberally laced with brandy after this.
“At once, my lord.”
Shit, shit, shit.
Cora once more brushed at his hair. “Come. We must attend to this to stave off infection, which is what kills more men in the jungle than predators.” She led him away from the river bank to where the men were setting up camp. At a rotted out tree stump, she gently pushed him onto it and set about to examine his oozing wound. “Is this your first mission?”
“No.” He wanted to grouse, but the pain in his head prevented such petulance. Plus, the lady was correct. The mud did start to stink as it dried. He refused to think of how many animals had defecated in that same mud… Argh! He eyeballed a battered, leather pack Manuel handed her, the same one she carried on her shoulders during travel. The back of his neck heated while she rooted about the bag. “It’s my first solo mission,” he finally admitted.
“Ah. It shows.” She said nothing further, but she hummed softly as she procured a needle and then efficiently threaded string through the eye. From her bag, she also drew forth a small bottle of whisky with an unfamiliar, American label. She uncorked it, poured a small measure onto a strip of cotton and then dabbed at his wound. The alcohol stung, and the strong almost medicinal scent teased him. Would that she’d let him drink it out. There were times when a man needed liquid courage. “Ready?” She recorked the bottle and dumped it into her bag.
“Does it matter?” he managed to bite out as disappointment swept through him. There’d be no drinking in the immediate future.
“No.” She chuckled and moved closer to him to stand between his splayed knees, which was unfortunate, for that put the swell of her breasts directly at eye level. “This will hurt.”
“Is there anything in this wretched place that feels nice?” At least the pain would take his attention from the charms thrust so damned close.
“Depends.” Cora set to work. She pinched the edges of the wound together and then the bite of the needle violated his flesh. He gritted his teeth. “Injuries to the head bleed more profusely, and this wound isn’t that deep. You shall live.” When she blew gently upon the wound as she stitched, heat of a different kind swamped him. Never had he been so intimately pressed against a woman before. Despite her dunk in the river, the faint scent of apple blossoms reached his nose. It was out of place in the Orinoco but reminded him of home.
Home, England, where nothing wished to kill him.
Then, the enticing curve of her bosom occupied his attention, and he could do nothing except peer down her shirt where the untied placket gaped open. The wet cloth clung to the slope of her breasts, and despite the wish to ignore her and the femininity she didn’t even try to hide, his member twitched.
“There. Finished.” She leaned away to admire her handiwork. Then Cora took a pair of dainty sewing scissors from her bag and then snipped the string. “Your first badge of honor from the wild, my lord.” Her smile bedazzled him, or perhaps it was the blow to his head that made him feel slightly dizzy.
“Thank you.” The words came out more gravelly than intended.
She patted his cheek and his world spun again. Definitely her. “You must come to grips with life here. It’s as alive as you or I. Each plant and animal are either defending themselves or searching for and drawing food to them, so that they can live and reproduce. That is all they know; all they have. Some even die after the deed is performed, for in their life-cycle, they have done their duty and there is nothing left.” She returned the needle to the bit of leather it had come from and then stuck it and the scissors into her bag.
Bentley frowned. “That is somewhat sad. What of love or even companionship? Do animals simply pal around?” He stifled a snort. What the hell? Hadn’t he derided Archewyne when they’d had nearly the same conversation about love and relationships? Being on a mission meant shunning such frivolity.
