“Perhaps there is another way to convince him,” Bradley said thoughtfully. Gazing at her.
“What—what do you mean?”
“A man might be able to stand a lot of pain when it is inflicted upon himself, but not upon those he loves. His wife—his child.”
“You wouldn’t.” She wasn’t afraid for herself. She would gladly suffer if it would relieve Jack. But Christina …
“You’re right,” Bradley said. “I’m human, and I would never harm you or your baby. But still … I do have you both in my possession.”
She could see him thinking.
“There must be a way I could use you both to weaken him,” Bradley muttered. Without jeopardizing my career.”
Her heart was pounding.
“Tarnower,” he snapped, and the door flew open. “See Missus Kincaid to her room. Bring her lunch. Post a guard. I don’t want her going near the prisoner.”
“Yessir,” the corporal said. And led her away.
CHAPTER NINETY
Candice couldn’t eat. She was too sick. It was finally, blessedly, dusk. Jack was still staked out, passed out. His calves, genitals, and hips were an angry red, his thighs a lesser shade of red, even his torso and arms and face, normally dark from the sun, were burned, but less badly. She had tried to get past the guard at her door with water in midafternoon. She had fought and screamed and cursed, kicking wildly, and it had taken another soldier to help restrain her, and then she had been locked in her quarters. She picked up her plate and threw it at the wall. It gave her no satisfaction.
She heard footsteps outside. She froze, having no idea what to expect. The door was unlocked, and she saw Major Bradley first, then Jack. Slumped, being dragged by two men, barely conscious. She couldn’t believe it. They helped him into her room and dropped him across the bed. With a strangled cry she flew to him.
“Oh, Jack.” She sobbed, touching his hair, clutching strands of it, wrapping them around her fingers.
His one eye opened, vague, unfocused. Then he saw her, and confusion mounted. But he recognized her. “Candice.” A ragged whisper.
She needed salve, grease, anything. She grabbed the pitcher of water and ripped her petticoat. Then she realized Bradley was standing there, watching with great interest. “Please,” she said, “get me some grease. Please.”
She turned to Jack, but was very much aware that Bradley had not moved. Why had he brought Jack there? She helped him to drink. She knew that throughout the day the soldiers had given him small sips of water, under orders, enough so he wouldn’t die. He knew better than to drink too quickly. He was so stoic.
She wet the cloth and carefully, very carefully, began to clean his face. She wiped off the blood and was relieved to see that he didn’t need stitches. She was as gentle as she could be. He watched her, without expression. But not warily.
His nose was crooked. Candice set aside the rag, giving him a falsely assuring smile. Then, in one motion, she snapped it back into place. He grunted, but when he looked at her she thought there was a faint glint of humor in his gaze. It was hard to tell.
“Don’t worry,” she whispered, stroking his thick, dust-coated hair. She wanted to know why they had been given this respite and had the awful, instinctive feeling that Bradley was about to close the steel jaws of another trap. She wondered if this was all for nothing, to keep him well enough to be able to talk, so that he could be hanged properly later. The feeling of sick fear increased.
“I will try not to hurt you,” she said, moving aside the edge of the bandage and wishing she had lard to soothe his burned body.
He said nothing.
So far there was no sign of infection, the one blessed part of this whole ordeal. Jack was looking at her, and she realized finally that she saw trust and relief in his eyes. It overwhelmed her with the desire to weep.
He knew. He knew she would never betray him.
She touched his hair. She wanted to tell him she loved him, that she always had and always would, but Bradley was behind her, so interested in everything she was doing.
“Come here, Candice,” he said. “I didn’t bring him here for your ministrations.”
She started, standing slowly. She looked into his eyes for a clue. Coldly gleaming. She looked at Jack, lying prostrate, but attentive on the bed. “What now? Can’t you please bring me some lard?”
Bradley gave her a small smile, went to Jack, and in the blink of an eye cuffed one red wrist to the bedpost. He straightened. “Never underestimate your enemy,” he said conversationally. “Take off your clothes, Candice.”
“What?”
“Perhaps your husband enjoys voyeurism? Perhaps not. We shall see. In any case, undress.”
