Vera and Mr. Amesbury, along with the few other survivors, had been delivered to a camp full of men working on the railway just as the sun had retreated and night claimed the jungle. In the fading light, it appeared as if the sea of workers were Congolese, some chained, others stood hunched as orders were shouted at them in French.

She stood by a fire as a shiver racked down her spine, her mauve shirtwaist in tatters, studying the crackling flame as the men around her discussed the events of the day.

Sabotage, they claimed loudly. “Melaney,” others whispered, as if to whisper something more sinister. As far as Vera knew, the frightening man hadn’t survived.

For her, it didn’t matter that she were surrounded by a city of canvas tents and rowdy men, her thoughts only ran circles around the events of the last month. Bad luck seemed to follow wherever she went lately. It was a habit she looked forward to breaking.

She blinked the thought away, bone tired, and left to find the doctor’s tent. Vera pushed through the flap of the canvas tent, her skin sticky from the night air. She was hit with a wall of pine—a strange smell for the jungles of Africa. If only it included heather, she would feel back at home in England.

No matter. She wouldn’t be going back for some time yet.

She tripped over an object on the ground, cursing, before she walked into what she guessed was a desk. Funny that after what she went through, the rest of the men at camp couldn’t even afford to give her a bit of light. But then again, that was the way with men, wasn’t it?

“Damn.” She rubbed the top of her thigh as she braced her other hand on the desk, steadying it as it rocked back and forth on the uneven ground.

A bottle rattled near the edge. She reached out and grabbed it, uncorking it with her teeth before the harsh sting of gin hit her nostrils. Vera would have preferred sherry, but she’d take what she could find here in the wild. She threw her head back for a long swallow, before setting the bottle down and freeing herself from the blood-soaked shirt that clung to her body.

Pain had settled into her bones, beating a harsh fire through her blood throughout the day after the wreck. She had somehow managed to hurt herself despite the corset that did little for her figure. She never understood why her aunt insisted her on wearing one when there was little to do with a lithe figure. Curves couldn’t be made out of straight lines and bones.

At least the map had survived the river without the ink running.

Her fingers trembled as she undid the hooks in front, trying to steady her breath as new pain seared fresh through her veins. “Christ almighty...”

The low light of a gas lamp flared at the end of the desk, revealing a man half in the shadows.

Vera rushed to cover herself, drawing up her spine to the shadow behind the desk.

“I’ve seen my fair share, darling. No need to be modest.”

A shiver danced across her skin around the same time an invisible vice tightened around her heart. She was told by the men of the camp she had another two days’ worth of travel before she reached him.

My God, Owen, she wanted to yell. She longed for his arms around hers. But his reaction to her gave Vera pause. Had he no idea who she was? Was she truly that forgettable?

“Perhaps, but something tells me you had to pay for the privilege,” she shot back.

The man issued a low laugh, something akin to the way a cup of tea warmed the body as it was swallowed. It was warm, dripping in a smoothness that drew Vera a step closer, her arm still stretched across her bare breasts.

“You’re wasting the last of my gin.” The blasted man arched a brow, shattering what little reserve she had about seeing him once more.

“After the day I’ve had, I assure you it wasn’t wasted, Mr. MacKenna”

He leaned closer, revealing more than a slip of his face—his handsome face. Everything about the man was wrapped in an intoxicating warmness. He was the sun, drawing her near to bath in his light. His chestnut hair was a touch too long and he hadn’t shaved in a few days, dark growth shadowing his jaw. But it was his eyes, the almost unnatural golden color of them that held her interest. Just as it had happened when they first met, her heart became his, a feeling of safety enveloping her.

“Why are you in my tent?” he asked, his hand scraping against his chin.

“I was told I could find the doctor here.” She shook her head, pain pulsing through her exhausted limbs.

“I’m the closet thing there is to a doctor. Ours died of black water fever three weeks ago.”

Curious for an engineer to be the camp’s doctor. “Well, I’m bleeding. I’d like—”

“And you’re in pain.”

She nodded, feeling herself lean closer, falling into that predictable draw of his. Perhaps memory struck him now. It certainly hit her. The way his hand had cupped her face as they kissed in the dark, up against the wall as a party went on just beyond the ballroom doors.

“I make it my business to know everyone, including the woman standing bare chested in my tent, pilfering my gin. But why exactly are you in my tent, Miss Attwater?”

“Do you make it your business to always have such a cheerful bedside manner?”

Owen leaned forward, his left eyebrow arched. “My bedside manner is just fine. Never had any complaints.”

Hadn’t she been pleased during that stolen moment they shared two years prior? It was a kiss of a lifetime, one women dreamt of when left alone to contemplate what it was like to be well and truly kissed by a man. “I wouldn’t expect any if you’re paying. Not good service.”

He laughed again, his profile lit up by the lamp. Vera had never seen a man look so god-like before, his head bent, his lips curled into a ruthless smile. “It’s been a long time, and of all the people to walk through my tent, I sure as hell wasn’t expecting you, lass.”

A long moment passed as she searched his eyes, for what, she wasn’t certain. “I need your help, Owen.”

Owen couldn’t stop staring at that damn mouth of hers, remembering the kiss they last shared. Secretly, of course. If Tom ever had found out, Owen would have met with her brother’s fist no doubt. Worse maybe if he had been in his cups. Attwater never could hold his liquor.

“Sit on my desk,” he said stiffly, turning to grab another lantern and his kit. Why the hell he wasn’t passed out drunk in the corner of his tent was beyond him. That had been the plan before news arrived of the wreck. The mess with Verlinden was the start of a day full of shite. Now he was saddled with the care of shipwrecked passengers in the railway’s camp and a half-naked woman with a viper’s mouth in his tent.

His best mate’s little sister, in fact. Well, Vera was more than someone’s little sister to, but he wouldn’t allow her to ever learn the truth.

The girl—no, woman—lifted herself back onto his desk, inhaling as her pale skin stretched over her ribs. The skin was far too red for him dismiss the possibility of bruising, or worse, internal bleeding.

Owen poured some fresh water in the small basin and gathered a clean rag before approaching her, studying her as he would a map. Her face was bruised and she had several lacerations, including two that appeared deep near her temple and on her thigh. Her thick blond hair was tied back with a frayed ribbon, the curls running the length of her back. But her eyes, those were what set the whole picture off, because for her height and lean body, her eyes could drown a man like a siren’s song. They were large for the other delicate features on her face, and dark—almost black.

They were beyond compare.

Owen had made it a practice to ask after Vera after that summer. There had been a fiancé, but he had died last year. He hadn’t stopped thinking of her any less, but he couldn’t afford another complication. Men like him didn’t deserve a woman like Vera.

Owen came to stand before her and set down his kit and the bowl of water. Hadn’t his men had the decency to offer her water for a bath? Dirt smeared across her cheek, a dried leaf tangled into her hair. She was a wayward mermaid, bruised and by the looks, about to fall asleep sitting up.

She issued that small sigh of hers then, tumbling him backward into that night of the ball when they were foolishly dressed for pomp and circumstance, celebrating Tom’s recognition from the Queen. He’d be lying if he blamed it on the excitement or the champagne. What was between himself and Vera had started early, much earlier in fact than that night. She had been fresh out of the school room, her aunt eager to make a match of her niece before she got any dangerous ideas into that brilliant mind of hers. And Owen had returned from the Philippines, shot and recovering from another mission at Tom’s cottage outside of Sheffield. And bright and sunny Vera had swept into his life like a storm and turned the heart in his chest inside out—eighteen to his twenty-nine years.

It had been a mistake then. It was still very much the case now.

“I thought you’d be happier to see me,” Vera said, drawing him back into the present.

Owen grunted in response, grabbing the wet rag and roughly wiping off her forehead lest he not ask how she was—truly.

“Maybe a hello,” she continued, a trace of teasing in her words. “Or how do you do?” She winced as he splayed his hand on top of her head and turned her face away from his.

Men like Owen were monsters. They stole and lied and killed for a living. He had too much blood on his hands to ever dare to care for someone. “You shouldn’t be here,” Owen said, easing his touch. “Tell me about today, what you remember.”

He hadn’t liked hearing that Melany had been aboard. The Irishman was infamous for looking after his own pockets. Owen wouldn’t put it past him to agree to sabotage the shipment of supplies to Owen’s camp as a way to cause rebellion. As it were, Owen had had enough of how the Force Publique treated the Congolese in camp. The damn country was being pillaged of its rubber supply on the backs of Congolese slaves, all to the benefit of King Leopold and his growing wealth.

She swatted away his hand. “If you’re going to wash my face as if I’m a potato, I can do so myself, thank you very much.”

“I apologize,” he mumbled. To have her so close once again, to hear her voice, it was the sweetest torture. “What happened on the ship?”

“I was on the deck speaking to a Mr. Amesbury. He’s a fellow countryman, and has been a pleasant companion on the trip so far.”

“He’s your chaperone?”

“I didn’t travel with one.”

“Christ, do you know how dangerous it is—”

Vera tilted her chin down, narrowing her eyes on him. “I smelled smoke, then there was an explosion. I was knocked into the river and I fought,” her voice wavered, “I fought the current as the screams rang out of the others. There was nothing left of the boat. Then the crocodiles came...”

“The jungle isn’t a place for a lady.”

The pointed edge of a boot swung into his shin. To his credit, Owen didn’t wince.

“I lost my brother, Mr. MacKenna. I’m here for the sole reason of finding out why. I’m here to secure your help. If that means I have to spend my days traveling through the jungle then I will do just that. You’d be surprised at the constitution of women if given half a chance.”

That’s where she was wrong. There was no doubt in Owen’s mind that Vera very well could weather the trials of such a harsh environment, but in regards to her brother, she would be disappointed. His death was what drove to Owen to remain in the hellish country, working to discover more about that legendary diamond before the Belgian government could get its hand on it. But he wasn’t going to allow Vera to get involved.

“Raise your arms,” he said stiffly.

She clutched the draped fabric of her shirt to her chest, casting a glare of daggers in his direction.

“I’ve to stitch that hole on your side, then to wrap your bruised ribs.”

“How do you—”

“It’s my job to know, Miss Attwater.”

Vera grudgingly let the fabric fall between them, baring her breasts. Her dark eyes met his, full of fire and a slice of venerability. By God she was beautiful. Owen rang out the rag and gently placed it over the angry red flesh at her side.

“You’re lucky to be alive.”

“Have you ever...that is,” she paused, sucking in a breath as his fingers lightly brushed the wound. “Do you ever fear for your life?”

There was a time when he had. Now, Owen had grown accustomed to the gnawing feeling he was about to die each day. And strangely, it had become a sick addiction of his—to crave that feeling.

“There are many dangers to the line of work I do,” he said, noncommittally.

Owen didn’t like how warm the wound was. An infection was likely to set in and they were too far for proper medical care. He cleaned the wound the best he could with the gin, then reached into his kit for his needle and thread. “It might be best,” he reached around her, “if you pilfer some more of my gin.”

“I’m stronger than you may think,” she said, her voice firm even as the rest of her shook under his touch.

“Lean back,” he whispered, shuttering his eyes to the beautiful sight of her. He studied the gentle curve of her shoulders as she fell backward onto his desk, her arms wobbling no doubt from exhaustion. Her skin was dusted with freckles there, matching those across her cheeks. “Good, and lean a bit to the right.” He ran his hand down the side of her ribs and she sighed, not in pain. He could have sworn it wasn’t in pain, and then he made the mistake of glancing up to her face. With her bottom lip gently nipped between her teeth, he could have sworn she found some pleasure from his touch, regardless of the grim circumstances.

But that was his mind playing with him, surely. She might remember him but Owen refused to let her know how he clung to the memories of their time together. No good could come of that.

With a steady hand, he pierced her skin and drew the needle through, closing up the wound. “You must keep this clean, understand?”

She didn’t reply. With another stitch, he tried to hurry the process along, weary of having her laid out before him such as she was. How often had he dreamed of having his way with her, straddled across him as they lay tangled in sheets, breathless from lovemaking?

Far too often.

“Vera,” he whispered.

Her arms buckled beneath her. Owen bent forward and caught her, his arms embracing her. Tears flooded her eyes, quiet tears of pain.

“Don’t cry,” he said stupidly.

“Are you not happy to see me?” she whispered back. Her eyes searched his, wide and desperate.

She tilted her chin forward, drawing her lips closer to his. “Please, say yes.”

Owen did what he was best at. It had served him well during his years of service to the Crown. “No,” he lied.