Page 2

She unwrapped his hand. The blood had soaked through the bandage, so she threw it in the bucket with the rest of the bloodied bandages. Elena put a good amount of salve on the wound and rebound it. If he lived, the wound would take weeks to heal. That was, if she could stave off infection, which was almost impossible in a place like this.

The dampness of the walls permeated the bones, the air stale, so much so that the stench of bloodied bandages, the piss bucket, and sickness made it hard to breathe. The dimness drained the body of its vitality.

The man on the table murmured something, so she leaned over to hear him better, making out a few English words, “Mother” and something that sounded like “Luci-inda”? She did not know the other words and had had no need for English before, but she knew enough French to curse their captives to the devil.

“Make sure she is safe,” he said, his head moving from side to side. “For God’s sake.”

For a moment, she wondered who he was arguing with as he continued to mumble despite the fact that his broken ribs labored his breathing. She understood the profanities, if not by word, then certainly by the tone he said them. She laughed at a particularly colorful string of swear words. Her brother Juan had been fond of swearing when he was deep into the wine bottle or playing cards with his friends. He was gone nearly as long as her father. The French bastardos killed him while he fought to reclaim his country. It seemed that standing up for your convictions got you killed. And here she was, preparing to do the same.

She brought the goblet filled with the draft to the mouth of the man. If his captors were to hear him talking… No, he must be quiet. He must rest. He would need his strength if she were to help him escape. If it had been her brother in the same position, she would like to know someone might have done the same for him.

Chapter Two

For three days, she had let him sleep. The French bastardos came every day, looked at him, and then left. She could not keep him unconscious for very much longer. The French were getting impatient. Elena did not like to keep him drugged, and she would need to wean him off the poppy later, but it was a means to an end.

After bathing and cleaning his wounds, she marveled at what had once been a fine physique. Now his body was nothing but a mass of purple and yellow bruises. Elena doubted there was an inch of this man she had not seen. Lucky she was not a timid virgin. She massaged his legs every morning to stop his muscles from wasting. His black eyes were a garish yellow now, but the swelling was going down. It would be helpful if he could see when they left this place. He was lucky they had not fractured his eye sockets. They had broken his arm, though. She had made a splint for it, but she’d had a hard time setting it back in place, and even now she was not sure if she had succeeded. If she had accomplished lining up the bones, it would still take months for it to knit. If they did not break it again, just for fun and the pain it would give him.

The man moaned, and she came to his side and checked his temperature. He was a little too hot for her liking, so she took off the blanket and assessed his many injuries. She undid the bandage on his hand. It was hot and swollen.

“Mierda,” she swore before returning to her worktable to assess what medicinal supplies she had. Grabbing the jar of honey, she rushed to her patient and cleaned the wound with salted water. It was red and swollen, angry, like a bull stomping in front of a matador. She applied the honey—nature’s miracle, her father had told her—hoping it would be the case this time.

For the next few hours, she forced him to drink water. She cooled him with a dampened cloth and listened to his heart. He needed time, fresh air, and good food. None of which he got in here.

She sat down heavily on the pallet she used for a bed and rested her head on the cold stone wall and pulled her knees up to rest her chin on. The room was an inner room, so no fresh air penetrated, nor any sunlight. Thankfully, she was able to leave this place every few days.

They would take her home tomorrow for the last time. After tomorrow, it will not be her home anymore. In truth, the home she had grown up in was nothing but a house, now that her father and brother were gone.

Though her guards watched everything she did, she would do nothing different, nothing to make them suspicious. She had done all she could in the time she had to get prepared.

The last few nights she had snuck out and taken everything she could think of to feed and clothe the Englishman and herself after the escape. She had dared not take too much and hoped they did not notice that some things had disappeared from her house. There would be no going back from this plan of hers, so she had taken only that which was precious to her.

She had stowed the last of her supplies in the hiding place she had made just on the other side of the hole and made her way back to the room where he lay. Not for the first time, she wondered why she was doing this. Saving a man she did not know, and an Englishman at that. Her father would be proud that she was doing all she could to keep him alive, but even he would think this a step too far. However, it was her papa who had instilled in her never to give up on saving a life if it was within her power to do so. So much of her time in this fort had been in the pursuit of that goal. If someone had given a thought to her brother… No, she had to stop comparing this man to Juan.

Elena checked the man once more before lying down on her straw pallet to get some sleep. Every part of her willed herself to ignore her thoughts, but still they came, preventing sleep yet again.

*

In the early morning, he awoke, head heavy. Where was he? He looked around, but nothing stayed still. He felt confused.

“What is this place?” he asked the darkness.

“The fort,” came the answer from a sweet, husky voice he remembered hearing before.

“Who are you?” He tried to sit up, but he could not.

“Shh,” she said, her tone calming. “My name is Elena Diaz. I am a…healer. You are gravely injured so you must stay still.”

“I need to…relieve myself.” It was then that he realized he was naked under the rough sheet. “Where are my clothes?”

She placed a cool hand on his brow. “Good. The fever has broken. Do you not remember anything?”

He searched his mind, trying to remember.

She sighed. “The French caught you and have been torturing you ever since you got here.”

The memories came flooding back, sickening to the stomach. “My arm.”

“Yes, they broke it. Took your finger too, beat you to a…” she looked like she was searching for the right word. “Pulpa.” She brought over an empty bottle for him to pee into.