Owen would rather have a leg removed with a dull knife than lead Vera to way lay at the center of the map she kept safely tucked against her breasts. He’d prefer instead of hold those breasts of hers in his hands, to taste them with his mouth, to hear the soft sigh she would make at his touch.

Too bad that wouldn’t happen either. No, no matter what she thought, Owen was trekking through the jungle with Vera for one specific purpose—to get her into town and on a goddamn ship back to England. She could be mad at him, he didn’t care.

Of course he cared a little, but not as much when he considered someone had tried to shoot them the day before. He would honor Tom and see Vera safe. Hell, let her be furious. Even if Owen had to drag her onto that ship, she’d be back in England in four weeks’ time, back to the safety she didn’t possess here. And one way or another, he’d get his hands on that map for his own, make a big show of possessing whatever information it held, and move to the target to his own back. That was at least familiar territory.

Vera mumbled behind him. He peeked over his shoulder, catching her swatting her hands in the air, her mouth pulled into a frown. He’d never considered her a woman with such high standards. She was never one of the fainting roses England so loved to keep stashed away in morning parlors.

“Problem, Miss Attwater?” Maybe he should remove the sneer in his voice, but after a morning of slashing away growth with his cutlass, he lost his ability to care about a lot.

Her response was breathless and throaty, a string of words he couldn’t make out. He stilled his blade and turned, catching her yank her boot from the jungle floor with difficulty.

A hundred responses swam through his mind, mostly sarcastic, ready to spur her on. Instead, she surprised him and marched forward, yanking the cutlass from his hand. He froze, arching a brow as she removed one boot, then the other, sinking into the soft earth. Her hair fell from its pins, cascading around her shoulders in loose golden curls.

Then she had the nerve to look up at him for a moment, one heart stopping moment, with those dark brown eyes of hers.

He most definitely, absolutely, would never confess just how much she had—no—meant to him. In that instant, he understood fully just how devastating such a confession would be. If he allowed himself to reveal that truth to Vera, it would erode any control he had remaining over his life. And with Tom now gone, there was quite little. The Crown was likely to send him wherever it saw fit, sending him into danger again and again, because that was it was to be a spy. He was a patriot to the core, a man who followed his Queen’s orders for the sake of his countrymen. He was a cog in a wheel, and his desires in life mattered little.

But Vera meant everything. And to confess that would put her in even more danger.

And maybe himself as well.

He looked away, only glancing back when curiosity got the better of him. With a thwack, Vera stood with the cutlass high above her head and her boot on a fallen tree. Another strike, and the heel of her boot neatly popped off.

“I can’t keep up if you insist on running through the jungle, Mr. MacKenna,” she said, switching boots. Thwack. “And I’m just as eager to get to our destination as you are.”

He doubted that. If all went well, she’d be on a steamer ship as he ventured deeper into the Upper Congo.

After a mostly sleepless night on the jungle floor, Vera had had it with the way Owen rushed through the jungle. Perhaps it was just that her patience was thin after a small meal of stale provisions he had packed, and a night spent out in a violent thunderstorm with little shelter. Not to mention the bugs. She had decided quickly not to count the snakes slithering past on the jungle floor or up the trees between the creeper vines.

She shuddered. Around her, the jungle was alive with a chorus of shrills and chirps from birds, the buzz of insects, the low pitter-patter of cascading water. It was a welcome distraction to count how many different sounds she could hear because he wasn’t much of a conversationalist either. He spent the morning hacking through the jungle growth without saying a word. Vera tagged along behind, stopping and going with the rhythmic swish of his cutlass.

But wasn’t that a sight to see—Owen MacKenna swinging a blade that could decapitate a man cleanly. It shouldn’t be something that spurred on Vera’s feelings toward the infuriating man, but it strangely did. His body possessed such sheer power, and he carried it with ease. If comparing him to a God was cliché, she would gladly do it, because he was in fact a man who was unlike any other she had ever met.

She handed back the cutlass, her eyes meeting his with the same measured coolness. Like that strong back of his, his manner toward her was cast in stone. But to admit to him anymore wouldn’t do. It was bad enough that he didn’t seemed remotely interested in her return. For her to be honest, to say that she had long dreamed of seeing him again, of kissing him, of dare she admit it—marrying him—would gut her. Her life was built on fighting the failures that kept arriving at her doorstep. One day, she would be published. One day she would see women secure the rights equal to that of a man. One day, she dared to be happy.

But for now, she was stuck in the jungle with Owen MacKenna, following a map of her brother’s, a day after being swept down river and getting shot at. She much preferred her tiny room back at Girton.

“Are you sure we are headed in the right direction?” she asked, slipping her foot into her now heel-less boot. She sunk awkwardly to the ground, but at least she wasn’t having to pull her boot out of the soft earth.

“I saw the map,” he answered grimly. “After yesterday, we have maybe another day added to the trip to head back in the right direction. We’ll get there.”

She secured her right foot into the second boot and nodded, not agreeing with him. It felt as if they had spent the morning walking in circles. The jungle floor was dense with overgrowth—layers of green upon green. Shades of the color she had never dreamt possible.

Vera thought to give him the map once again, to be sure of their destination. But she didn’t trust the man so concerned with seeing her off to England.

“How long until we get there?” she asked, gesturing for him to continue hacking his way through the jungle. If there wasn’t a path, he saw to making one.

“We were swept downstream for a few miles. We ran off course.” With a violent swing, he raised the cutlass and cut a swath of palms, striding forward as they showered down to the ground. “If I had to guess, we have seven days ahead of us. We’ll try for five if you can keep up.”

They continued on for another two hours before they reached the top of another hill, stopping as a rope bridge stretched before them above the river far below. The towering limestone cliffs exaggerated the height as the jungle growth thinned.

A group of birds soared through the sky, flying together in a feathered rush, cutting through the hot afternoon with ease. Owen removed the canteen at his hip and offered it to Vera. She took it, grateful to satisfy her thirst.

“We’ll go across.”

Vera took a few swallows of water, then handed the canteen back to Owen. “It doesn’t look like it’s been used in years,” she said, skirting around him to get closer. The rope was weathered to a dark gray and frayed at the posts by her hips. The bridge boards appeared soft, a few even missing. “We can’t cross this. There has to be another way.”

“We’d have to hike down, find our way to the river and try to cross, then hike up the other side. Trust me, this is the fastest way.”

She toed closer to the ledge’s edge, peering over to the see the angry white water of the river. It was waiting for her, no matter their plans. “We could hike down and head in another direction. Why does this country have so many rivers?”

She startled, glancing over her shoulder to hear what sounded a lot like laughter from Owen. She tried to wipe the answering smile away from her own face, but failed. His laugh was rich and intoxicating. It made his tired eyes spark with a brief glimpse of life.

And suddenly she was back there in his arms, smelling the fresh clove of his aftershave, lost in a dizzying waltz beneath the chandelier light of the ballroom. Eighteen and she had so quickly fallen for her brother’s best friend that summer. Like the way he swung that cutlass, she had known the world with then without him in the blink of an eye. But that night, that lovely splendid night...

She watched his lips move now as he spoke, not registering the world, instead missing the feel of them against her mouth. She had spent years remembering their kisses, remembering what it felt like to be so consumed—wholly. Vera was completely his that summer. And then he was gone.

She knew now that it was only a passing fancy, some schoolgirl’s daydream of what love could be. It was a one-sided affair, and she’d be best served if she buried what feelings her heart harbored for him there in the depths of the jungle.

“Do you hear me, lass?” he asked, shrugging on his pack again. He held a map in his hand, tracing his index finger of the river. The light hit his hair, striking it with gold. His skin was tinged from too much sun, and it was pulled tight over his cheekbones, reminding her again of a hungry wolf. “We’re going across. You’re going first.”

Once, there had been softness in his voice and reverence in his touch. Once, he hadn’t been so hard to the world around him. At least then, it had held some wonder, some enjoyment. Now, it was as though he marched through the world, hard and barren of feeling.

She nodded, inhaling a great breath. Vera held on to the two wooden posts, surveying the bridge in front of her as it swayed from side to side.

“I’ll be behind you.”

His nearness startled her again. If she survived this country, it wasn’t going to be because of him. She swallowed, stretching out her right foot to test the strength of the bridge. The added weight made the floorboards wobble. The bridge shook before her.

“I can’t do this,” she whispered, her hands whitening around the posts. “No.”

“Go on,” he said forcefully behind her.

She looked over her shoulder, shaking her head as their eyes met. “I can’t. I can’t move.”

Owen stood still for a moment, then approached, placing his hand over hers. Carefully, he removed it from the post and leaned into her, stretching her forward to hold on the rope banister.

“Close your eyes,” he whispered.

Her heart drummed in her ear and she wasn’t sure if it was because he was so close or because if she opened her eyes, she’d be leaning over the cracks of the boards. The river seemed too far below, some 200 yards if she had to guess. She slammed her eyes shut, focusing instead on his hand over hers, the weight of his front against her back. She was nearly enveloped by him.

“Now, take a step.”

Hesitantly, she reached her foot in front of her, feeling for the solid footing of a board. It shook below her as she settled her weight on it.

His breath was warm on her neck and for a moment, she swore she felt the trace of his lips there, etching their way up to the nape of her hair. “Now another.”

Vera shook her head. It felt as if her stomach were lodged somewhere in her throat. She had come all this way for Tom and now...now a bridge stood between her and the answers she was so desperate to get.

“You’ve come this far, Vera.”

She swallowed, then took a step forward, pulling herself along with her left hand. The bridge swayed beneath her feet as she opened her eyes, three boards away now from the cliff. Owen stood by the post, tucking the map into his shirt.

“I can’t go unless you do. We’re in this together.”

Something in her heart hitched as he said “we,” as though there was ever such a thing except for that brilliant night. With his lips upon hers, she had once believed such an extraordinary thing.

Vera exhaled, looking ahead to the end of the bridge. She chanced another step, then another, the bridge widening its swing. She peeked over her shoulder to Owen, then continued another two steps, the halfway point in the bridge still so far off.

“Keep going.”

She quickened her pace, stretching her stride to skip two boards that were missing, her heart leaping against her chest at the sight of the river below her. Feeling bold, she quickened her pace, jumping from step to step with big strides.

“Slow down,” she heard shouted from the other ledge. The wind carried the rest of Owen’s voice away. She paused, feeling the tension increase in the bridge with his added weight. With another wide swing to the left, Vera panicked, increasing her speed until she was running over the rest of the rope bridge, ignoring the loud sounds as the stress increased with her strides.

With one giant leap, she collapsed to the ground, thankful for something solid beneath her. Then, a loud snap cut through the air. She sat up in time to watch as the bridge crumbled beneath Owen and fell out of sight.

Vera jumped to her feet. “Owen! Mr. MacKenna!”

The bridge that once spanned the two hills was gone, and so was he.

“Don’t you ever fucking listen?” she heard, in between a string of curses. She crept to the ledge and looked over, breathing a sigh of relief as Owen scaled the side of the cliff, the bridge acting as a ladder.

He looked up, his mouth set in a firm line as he propelled his body upward, quickly. “This damn bridge isn’t going to hold.” He slipped a step as a board broke under his weight. For such a large man, he moved with grace, grasping the cliff in time before the rope at the posts snapped and the bridge fell down to the river.

Vera backed up, giving him room as he pushed upward and stood, now on firm ground. And then, without another thought, she ran and threw her arms around him.