He swallowed to remove the cotton from his mouth, then forced his clammy mouth to work. “Who are you?” His voice came out more gravely than it should, so he cleared his throat.
She raised her chin, those dark brows arching in a look of calculated amusement. “That’s a better question for you, I think. From where do you hail, monsieur?”
With the lilting accent and the occasional foreign word, she must be French. Was everyone else from the Canadas, too? What kind of enemy hotbed had he ridden into? The French weren’t currently attacking his home country, although they’d been troublesome at the start of the war. The British were the primary enemies, but the French certainly hadn’t proved allies. And where did the loyalties of this little settlement lie?
The question she’d asked wasn’t one he was willing toanswer, so he motioned toward the woman working over him. “Is she finishing me off?”
He meant it half in jest, and the smile that touched the corner of her mouth said she caught the humor. “If I wanted that done, I would have accomplished the task myself.”
The brunette woman who dabbed at his wound with a thick paste glanced up at his captor, and they shared a smile.
That was all well and good, but he couldn’t have been brought here merely as sport for a gaggle of women. He pulled his elbows back and lifted his chest in an attempt to sit up, but the fire in his gut seared hot.
“Lie still. You’ll start the bleeding anew.” The woman working on his injury pushed on his shoulder, but he ignored the pressure.
He shifted his bound wrists so he could press one hand to his wound, trying not to react when he touched a wet mass of something. His shirt still covered his upper half, but they’d pulled up the bottom to tend the wound. At least they hadn’t stripped him bare.
“Lie still.” This bark came from the black-haired archer, but he paid no heed to the command as he fought through the pain to sit up.
A flurry of motion whirled around him, even as his head spun from the change in position. A sharp jab was the first sensation that gave him pause. He looked up into the sparking glare of his captor. The lady warrior.
Another pair of eyes glared from just behind her, these decidedly belonging to a man. Two more men hovered on his other side, the one in front holding a hatchet poised to strike Evan as though he were a piece of firewood to be split down the center.
His chest clenched so tight he couldn’t draw air. He hated being in confined spaces, especially with his hands bound. But he couldn’t react. Couldn’t show the irrational fear that hammered in his chest—not so much from the hatchet as from so many people hovering over him like a smothering blanket.
He eased his hands up to show he meant no harm. “I’ll not hurt anyone. Just give me a moment to sit.”And back away from me.
Wary gazes studied him all around, and that hatchet still poised high above him. Apparently, his words hadn’t convinced them. He couldn’t promise he wouldn’t try to escape, but his mission was a peaceable one. Unless he had to fight for his life, he’d not cause injury.
“I swear it on my honor. You’ve nothing to fear from me.” He met each gaze in turn, ending with Miss Archer, who still had the point of her knife poked into his chest. She was probably making a good-sized hole in his shirt.
Of course, her arrow had already done that once.
He met her hard glare with a look of his own, trying to keep his gaze as neutral as he could. In truth, if he made it out of this place alive, the accomplishment would be by the mercy of God alone.
She studied him for another long moment, then pulled the knife away from his chest and straightened. She flicked a glance to the man with the hatchet and spoke something, but this time it was loud enough that he could tell for sure the words weren’t English. Definitely French. The man’s quick response came in the same language. Evan had picked up a few French words in his work as a spy, but these two spoke so rapidly he couldn’t decipher much.
All four of them took a collective step back, but the woman returned her glare to him. “Audrey will finish tending your wound. But if you give her trouble, I shall slit your throat.”
Although her tone was quiet, the words seemed to echo off the walls when she paused for effect. Part of him wanted to scoff at the idea of a woman doing him in, yet he was no fool. She’d already disarmed him, leaving him lying on his back—wounded, hands bound, and surrounded. He would need to overcome at least a few of those obstacles before he had any hope of escape.
He glanced at the brunette female standing by the stone wall, behind the man with the hatchet. “I’ll not give her trouble.” He could only pray she planned to apply a healing salve, not a poisonous concoction.
The men appeared to be pacified by his answer, for they all stepped away. At a word from the hatchet-wielder, the other two left the room through a wooden door tucked in the corner.
The remaining man propped himself against the wall near the door, and the lady warrior moved back to her position on the other side of the chamber. The young woman, Audrey, returned with a basket that must contain her supplies.
As she worked, Evan sent a glance around the room. His chest clenched again, and he struggled for slow, steady breaths. This space was large, but the walls were made of solid stone, as though he was in a cave. He wouldn’t be able to get out except through the single door.
Three torches lit the area from their various mounts along the walls. With the dimness of the room, a fourth would have been welcome. Maybe more light would ease the hammering in his chest.Settle yourself, MacManus.
Pressure at his wound brought a blessed distraction, and he turned his focus to Audrey, the only name he knew among these people.
She looked at him. “I need to wrap the bandage in place. Can you lean up?”
He nodded, then worked his elbows under him again and bit back a groan as he strained to a sitting position. He’d not show weakness to these people, no matter that his belly felt as if a searing knife twisted deep.
When she finished, she touched his shoulder. “Lie back now.”
