Before Salaam could spew more filth, Nightshade brought the hilt of her knife to his temple, rendering him unconscious. As fast as possible. She bound his hands to a second pole in the tent and gagged him. Then she went to help get Merc down.
When Salaam woke up, she’d finish her task.
His vision hazed and Merc blinked rapidly, focusing in on the blurry form of a small figure in black robes approaching, a bloody dagger in her grip.
“Caroline? It’s really you?” It couldn't be.
Caroline Cotter didn't know how to kill a man. She should be crying or screaming, but this girl moved with a lithe and subtle grace.
“Don't talk, you need your strength,” she said while calmly stepping over the dead man at their feet. “There's a corral of horses about twenty feet behind your tent. Can you walk long enough to get there?”
The vision before him doubled and shifted. “Caroline, is that you?”
She lifted her hood, revealing her long pale blond hair. “Yes. Can you walk?”
Walk. Horse.Escape.“Yeah.”
“I need to cut you from the ceiling. Ready?”
Merc managed a single nod and tried to lock his knees, knowing the minute she freed him he’d fall on his face.
Eyes closed, he heard the soft sound of her cutting through the rope and then his right hand fell to his side. Agony burned through his arm and it was all he could do to not howl out in pain.
He felt the lightest touch on his cheek and opened his eyes to look into the clear blue aquamarine of Caroline’s. “I'm sorry I have to hurt you to save you.”
He took a deep breath so that he could get the words out. “It's all right. Cut the rope and stand back.”
After a soul-searching second, she nodded and stepped to the side. One slice and he hit the ground with a thud, landing over the dead Salaam like a cross as the remaining air was knocked from his lungs. He was pretty sure he blacked out again.
When he came to, Caroline was squatting next to him. Her robe was parted, and he caught a glimpse of sapphire blue pants and a bare, toned stomach. She’d tucked a knife into a makeshift holster at her waist. “You have to get up. I've cut a hole in the back of the tent so we can go straight for the horses.”
How was she saving him, a sheltered senator’s daughter who’d never done anything more than kickboxing in her life?
Merc shoved the question to the back of his mind and used all of his concentration to focus on standing. He got a knee beneath him and then another. Forced to use his sore arms to lever himself into a vertical position, he swayed and Caroline steadied him.
“That's it. Now, on your feet, soldier.” Her whisper was a harsh command, leaving no room for argument. She'd make a great drill sergeant.
Merc somehow got to his feet, bracing them wide for balance as the whole tent seemed to tilt. He shook his head, as if he could shake off the fog clouding his thoughts and actions.
Excruciating pain radiated from his neck down to his fingers as blood rushed back through his veins like sharp pinpricks. His arms tingled back to life, and in that moment, he wished they’d remain numb.
He could barely feel Caroline's arm, small as it was, hooked around his waist. Her head just reached his chest, but somehow she supported his weight enough for him to limp to the newly cut tent flap.
The cold night air sucked what remaining body warmth he’d managed to keep inside, the contrast with the hot blood running down his skin even more acute. A bright moon, full and glowing, clearly lit the night and highlighted a large pen of horses.
“Where's the guard?” he asked. The desert nomad’s horses were their lifeblood, something they'd never leave unguarded intentionally.
“Distracted for the moment. Hurry. I've saddled a stallion big enough to handle both of us.”
Merc coughed, the involuntary spasm in his lungs doubling him over. “How do you know about horses?”
“What doyouknow about horses?” Caroline asked instead of answering.
Images flashed through his mind lightning fast. A great golden bay with the sunlight gleaming on her coat. Her name had been Chestnut. And then just like that, the memory evaporated.
“I know how to take care of them. How to feed them. Change out their shoes. I know that's a piebald and that's the paint.” He nodded to the horses close to them as they circled the pen. “And that great big black is a stallion.” But he had no idea how he knew these things, the blank slate of his memory before the military a yawning hole, empty and lonely.
“Good. Think you can get your foot in the stirrup? If you can get up there, I can tie you to the horse to keep you on his back.”
