Читать книгу Royal Captive - Dana Marton - Страница 8

His stomach rolled with each wave that the ship encountered and there was an endless supply of those. When he went on longer trips, he usually took a pill to counter his motion sickness. There’d be no relief here.

Istvan leaned back against a crate as he sat on the ground, his arms resting on his pulled-up knees. He was passing the time by mentally listing his theories about Lauryn. Either she was in the container because she stole the treasure and wanted to stay as close to it as possible. Or because she’d stolen the treasure and then had a falling-out with her partners who locked her in. Or she’d witnessed the treasure being stolen while she was looking for pieces for the Getty, the heist got her blood heated and she followed the treasure, thinking she could take it from the thieves and keep it for herself. He didn’t give much credit to her claims of being completely innocent.

“Are you sure you don’t have a concussion?” she asked him, sitting opposite.

He resented her concern, given that it was more than likely that she had something to do with their current circumstances. “Quite certain.”

That only kept her quiet for a minute. “We have no food or water,” she said, stating the obvious.

“A good thing, because we don’t have a toilet either,” he said just to torture her.

She pursed her lips as she stood. “That’s it, then. I’m getting out of here.”

She did have an indomitable spirit, he had to give her that. “How?”

“I’m going to think of something.” “Happy thoughts will give you wings?” he mocked her.

“You can’t underestimate the power of positive thinking.”

Or the power of self-delusion, he thought, hoping she wouldn’t get going and give him a motivational seminar.

She was staring straight up, as if expecting inspiration to drop from heaven. “How many more bullets do you have left?” she asked after a few minutes.

Great, here came the brilliant idea. He checked his gun, not keen on handing it back to her. “Ten.” “Do you have any matches?” “How about a lighter?” He didn’t smoke, but he always carried one, along with a pocketknife. Now and then they came in handy at a dig.

“Can I have it with five of the bullets?”

“What for?”

“There’s light coming in. Which means rust spots in the top of the container. Weakness. A small explosion could peel back enough for us to squeeze through.” She eyed the crates.

He didn’t think she was kidding. “You can build a bomb?”

She didn’t respond, only held out her hand, as good as an admission—of her bomb-making skills and her past.

After thinking it over and realizing they had few other options, he counted out five bullets for her. “You might see why I was reluctant to put you in charge of a traveling exhibit of Valtrian treasures.”

She closed her fingers around the bullets and the lighter. “The skills I have might yet save your treasures.”

He couldn’t argue with that, so he said nothing. He simply watched as she scaled the crates, a sleek shadow moving swiftly, higher and higher until she disappeared on top. He pulled his dropped chin back into place.

“Do you need help?” he asked belatedly. He wanted out of here and she seemed to want the same thing. Whatever hidden agenda she had, for now it looked as if they were working toward the same goal. They might as well work together. “I can help.”

Now and then the setting of charges was necessary at an excavation, although, due to the high risk of damage, he employed that tool as rarely as possible and always had an expert handle it. But he wasn’t uncomfortable around explosives.

“Stay covered in case there’s flying shrapnel,” she called down from her perch.

Shards of steel flying from the top of the container, he realized, were a definite possibility. He looked at the crates. The wood boards were thick enough to protect the contents, his first concern. “And you?” he asked as an afterthought.

“I’ll deal.”

He started forward. “Look, I—”

A small explosion cut him off, which did send some shrapnel flying and shook the tower of crates Lauryn had climbed.

“Are you okay?” he called up as the dust settled.

“Of course I am.”

“They had to have heard that.” He put his disguise back on, hoping he got the mustache straight. His swim over to the riverboat had washed off some of the glue. He’d have to be careful not to lose the damn thing completely.

“There’re plenty of other noise with all engines going full-steam. And even if they heard us, it’ll take them a while to figure out where the noise came from. They might think it was just two containers sliding against each other.” She peeked down at him. “The way is clear. Whenever you’re ready.”

He wasn’t one of those super-macho types, but the fact that she would be rescuing him rubbed him the wrong way. His masculine pride prickled as he climbed the crates. They swayed the whole time, which didn’t help his motion sickness.

She was already halfway through the hole when he got there, her shapely behind dangling practically in front of his face. “Watch the edges. They’re pretty sharp.” She grunted. “I could use a hand here.”

For a moment he hesitated, not sure where or how to touch her. He ended up bracing her thighs, which seemed to do the trick. Her muscles flexed against his palms. He ignored the way that made him feel. She hoisted herself up at last. “Come on.” He tried. There wasn’t enough room for his shoulders. But he was good at navigating tight spots. He’d spent a lot of time in underground funeral chambers, squeezing through impossible passageways. He twisted, angling one shoulder up, and turning the right way to be able to clear the hole without losing too much skin. The cool night air felt like heaven on his face. He sat next to the hole and drew a couple of deep breaths, hoping to steady his stomach. She was already moving along, going for even higher ground, easily climbing the side of another container. He went after her, only succeeding with effort even though he had the advantage of upper-body strength.

She was looking all around when he caught up with her. “Any idea where we are? I can’t see the lights of the land.”

Neither could he, which meant that swimming to shore now was out of the question. He looked up at the sky to get his bearings. “Heading southeast for now.” Of course, that was pretty much a given. They had to get out of the Adriatic. “Once we reach the Mediterranean Sea, we’ll see if the ship is heading toward Asia, Africa or for the Atlantic.”

“How soon will we know?”

“In a couple of hours.” They were traveling at a good clip.

“Any idea what we could do in the meanwhile?”

He looked out over the vast rows of containers and could make out the bridge up front. He drew a deep breath. “We could try taking over the ship.”

HER IDEAS HAD BEEN more along the line of jumping ship and swimming for shore, but she could see the white froth of the waves in the moonlight. The water was too rough, the mainland too far away.

“Look.” She pointed toward the starboard side.

A half-dozen men were walking the ship with flashlights.

“Maybe they heard the explosion,” Istvan observed.

“Or it’s a routine check. To make sure the containers are all steady and well-secured. They’d want to know that before the ship goes out to the ocean.”

The muscles in his cheeks seemed to tighten as she said ocean. And she noticed how tightly he was hanging on to the edge of the container as the whole ship swayed.

Several pieces fell into place. “Are you seasick?”

“Certainly not,” he said with heat, which told her she’d hit a nerve.

She sat back on her heels as she examined him. She didn’t picture him having any weaknesses. He’d been nothing less than formidable from the moment they’d met. She couldn’t help a relieved smile.

“I’m always glad when I can use my misery to entertain others,” he groused.

“Having weaknesses makes a person more approachable. You can be harsh, you know.” She paused. “You probably do. You probably do it on purpose. I wasn’t looking forward to working with you, to be honest.”

He pulled up an eyebrow. “The feeling is completely mutual.”

She smiled again, at his unflinching honesty, the first thing she liked about the prince.

“Do you always take so much delight in other people’s misfortune?” he asked in a wry tone.

“Sorry.” She reached back and unhooked her necklace, pulled the round eye hook off with her teeth, rolled off all the pearls save two. She stashed the free pearls in her pocket, then with four knots she secured the remaining two about three finger widths apart. “Give me your wrist.”

“I don’t wear jewelry.”

“Please, you’re royalty.”

“I wear some symbols of the monarchy on ceremonial occasions,” he corrected.

She held his gaze.

“I don’t have a problem.”

“This will help the problem you don’t have.”

After a moment of glaring at her, he held out his left hand. She fastened the string so the pearls would be on the inside of his wrist, pressing against the nerves there.

“What is this?” He examined her concoction dubiously, while she made a matching one for his other wrist.

“An acupressure bracelet. My father used to be seasick. He was terrible. You’ve never seen that shade of purple. He looked like a walking Monet painting when it hit him bad.”

The darkening of his face told her that bringing up her father might have been a mistake. “He was a good man, in his own way,” she added, feeling the need to defend the man who’d kept her fed and clothed, alive for the first part of her life.

He remained stoic. “Forgive me if I don’t take your word for it.”

After a moment of silence, he climbed from the top of the container onto the top of the row below them, then down several more levels to the deck. He strode forward between the rows, going pretty fast, pulling into cover each time he reached a gap between two containers.