He tilted her a glance, arching a brow. “Riding ahead. Considering that we managed to get ourselves lost last time, I suggested we be certain to travel the right path.”
“Good idea,” Elizabet remarked, trying to sound nonchalant, though she was suddenly anything but.
“Everyone is anxious to be across the border,” he explained, “and I wanted to be certain we traveled expeditiously. This land is filled with dirty savages,” he told her.
Elizabet nodded, willing her heartbeat to slow. She turned her gaze toward the horizon. The land was flatter now, and few trees obstructed the scenery, but there was no sign of the other two. She swallowed convulsively, telling herself to remain calm.
She cast Tomas a veiled glance, trying to determine whether he sensed her apprehension. He wore a placid smile and seemed not to have a single care.
She carried no weapon at all, not even a dirk.
Her gaze fell to the pack that hung over his mount. He kept his bow there, which he used to hunt for their meals. Her belly fluttered at the sudden realization. Broc had claimed he’d spied a bowman in the woods. Tomas was, indeed, partial to the bow. He carried no sword but kept one sheathed in the scabbard slung over his horse. His dagger, he kept in his belt; it was the only weapon he carried on his person.
She was beginning to get the most awful feeling in the pit of her belly.
Oh, God... what if Broc was right?
How could she be certain anymore who was telling the truth?
She took a deep breath and dared to ask, “I meant to inquire... but forgot... about the pouch....”
Her heartbeat quickened.
“Pouch?” he said, sounding perplexed. His brow furrowed as he looked at her.
“My dowry,” she reminded him. “Did you remember to take it from John’s body? He was carrying it, as you recall.”
“The pouch!” he exclaimed, as though only just recalling it. “Nay.” He shook his head soberly. “I fear it was stolen by that Scots bastard,” he told her.
Elizabet lifted her brows and turned away, her breath catching painfully.
That was the one thing she knew absolutely for certain. Broc did not steal the pouch. There hadn’t been time. He hadn’t even known about it.
Fear squeezed her heart. It flip-flopped against her ribs. She tried to speak but couldn’t. Her stomach turned violently over his disclosure, and she felt suddenly as though she would be physically and uncontrollably ill. Dizziness threatened to spill her from her mount.
Broc had been telling her the truth all along. She knew that with a sudden certainty that overwhelmed her.
And she was alone with this madman with no weapon to protect herself.
She closed her eyes, trying to compose herself, forcing her thoughts to clear, and repressed the overpowering urge to wheel her mount about and fly back to Broc.
Jesu...
She said a silent prayer, begging God’s aid and Broc’s forgiveness. It was true that he hadn’t told her about her brother, but he had been speaking the truth about everything else.
Piers had tried to keep her from leaving, but she had been stubborn and willful in her anger.
She hadn’t realized how long she’d been silent, until Tomas commented on her reticence.
She shook her head. “I’m just tired,” she lied.
“We’ve quite a way to go,” he replied.
Her stomach roiled.
She had to get away from him somehow. The reins shook in her hands. There was no better time than the present. The longer they rode, the farther they would be from anyone who might help her, the less her chances for survival. She swallowed her fear and said, laughing nervously, “I’m afraid I must beg you to give me respite.” She reined in her horse. “I must have a few moments of privacy.”
He frowned at her. “Is aught wrong?”
