Would he overpower her? She patted a knife hidden in her pocket. Oh, she’d make use of her strongest assets…wit and stealth, calmly sizing up her opposition, then plunging headlong into battle.
Colonel Lucas Rourke stared at the locked door. So, he remained a prisoner of the Confederacy. He swore under his breath. As one of the chief administrators of the Office of Civilian Spying for the Union, he found himself in a perplexing, if not dangerous situation. He’d been kidnapped, tortured, and nursed back to a modicum of health, no doubt for more interrogation.
All at the hands of the deceitful Saint who with certainty conspired to have him handed over to the Rebels.
Escape.He must protect those working for him at all costs. If they could break him, and they nearly did, he’d be forced to give up all his contacts.
With certainty, Jimmy O’Hara would be searching for him. Jimmy was a street rat that Lucas employed. Despite the young Irish hooligan’s underworld, he’d never be able to trace Lucas to Richmond.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, sweated with the effort. His head pounded, with certainty from the effects of a drug they must have forced through his lips. He struggled to rise. His body weighed like a ton of bricks. One of his cotton bandages loosened, and he attempted to fix it. He looked over his shoulder. Blood oozed. He lightly pressed a finger in the center of a cut and sucked in a sharp breath as the pain spiraled through his body.
“It’s a poor job you’re making of those bandages.”
Without looking at his visitor, he drawled with a heavy dose of sarcasm, “You can perform the job better?” He glanced up, unable to conceal his surprise and unable to trust himself to speak.
Nature could not improve on the woman’s perfection. Her hair, a rich glowing auburn was caught in a mass of loose ringlets and cascaded over her shoulders and down her back. Her features were flawless, the nose straight and delicately boned. Beneath soft brown brows were eyes a baffling amber and when between sunlight and starlight, he imagined were endless shades of dark and light, from muted to burnished gold. Under his warming perusal, the creamy skin blushed slightly.
She moved toward him. “I will attempt to do so if I can, despite your cynicism, sir. The way you’re going at it, you’ll end up dead before you’re healed.”
“By all means, make me privy to your knowledge.”
Lifting an airy brow, she looked around, fetched a jar off a chest and removed his bandages.
He flinched. “I may be injured but not dead, madam. Is there not anyone else who could perform the same duties?” He turned his head to her and caught the vague hint of a smile, lighting the room like a million candles.
“No one else is around whom I trust. Besides, I have been your caregiver during your convalescence.”
What kind of man would let this creature tend another man? He’d lock her away forever.
“No time to be prudish,” she chastised. Despite his protest she began applying the salve. Colorful spots contoured the sides of his eyes and he bit his lip from the agony. To his chagrin, she talked to him as a nanny would to a child, her voice, sinfully rich, making the pain of his wounds disappear. Her fingers massaged in circles, working deftly and easing the tenderness so well.
“You are healing nicely. You’ve come a long way from near death. A very lucky man to have escaped the Grim Reaper. Next time you may not be as lucky.”
Lucas peeked at his abdomen, purple and lumpy where it should have been smooth. He clenched his hands into fists. He’d remember the Saint’s minion who lived to beat and kick him.
Remarkably, he felt better. She replaced the bandages, plumped the pillows and helped him into a sitting position.
“Yet…I’m still a prisoner.”
“Is it so bad?” She played a game with him, waiting for his reaction.
“My mind can barely absorb so much splendor. After the torture I received, I have another to take its place. Will you tell me your name, or are you going to keep it a secret?”
Her golden eyes flickered with interest. His words trite to her ear. She shook her head, tossing the curling tresses enticingly, and laughed somewhat ruefully. “Rachel,” she said, her voice washing over him like a warm wave upon the sand. How adept she was, saying as little as possible.
“I am at a loss, sir,” she murmured. “For I do not know your name.”
“I guess we are at an impasse,” Lucas fenced. He’d be frugal with information as well.
“We are going to need a level of trust if I’m to help you. My late departed mama said all Yankees are rogues. Are you a rogue?”
He admired her eloquent wordplay. All good liars were quick-witted. “I imagine I’ve done a few roguish things.” He waved his hand over his surroundings. “I apologize if I have little to offer you. Since my departure from my last accommodations…my hosts have left me little to recommend.”
Her eyes slid to where a Bible lay open on an end table. She gritted her teeth, and then rolled her shoulders back, as if forcing herself to relax. What was significant about the Bible that she dropped her emotional camouflage?
“The worst of sinners can have the best of intentions. So, there is hope for you…” She let her words fall, no doubt hoping to have him divulge his identity.
He smiled at her cleverness. “I gather you Rebels know my name if you took the trouble to kidnap me. What is it you want?”
