A Warrior’s Heart by Misty M. Beller
2
Brielle knelt beside the crumpled form on the ground, a knife in her hand. His collapse was most likely due to the sleeping potion she’d coated the arrowhead with, but she couldn’t be too cautious with an outsider. She worked two fingers under the collar of his coat, then stilled as she felt the flow of his life blood. Not a strong surge, but steady.
She allowed her gaze to roam his face. Strength resonated from the tanned skin around his eyes, although most of his lower features were covered with a close-cut beard. Its shortness almost made him look like a vain popinjay that spent hours on his appearance, except for the untrimmed edges. Perhaps a fresh growth for the winter months, as a few of her villagers allowed.
The man’s lips parted slightly, his steady breaths tinged with a ragged sound. She glanced down at the blood spotting his middle. The patch had grown to cover most of his midsection. He should be moved inside, where Audrey could attend him.
Straightening, she looked at the four men forming a semicircle near the stranger’s feet, awaiting her instructions. “Leonard, fetch his horse. Philip, Geoffrey, take him to the holding chamber. I’ll get the healer and follow soon.”
She pushed to her feet and stepped back, clearing the way for the others to carry him inside. The man’s clothing wasn’t much different than her own people’s, although she’d never seen that style of foot covering.
From where had he come? And for what purpose? They’d worked so hard to keep their village hidden from the outside world. Even a hundred years ago, when the grandfathers had left New France to settle here, they’d traveled months to find an area this far from civilization. The mountain caves had provided the perfect place to build their community.
But now a stranger invaded their privacy. The only other time Englishmen had entered their circle had been . . . awful.
That day had changed Laurent forever.
But at least those murdering Englishmen hadn’t escaped to tell of the hidden French village. Perhaps this man had heard of their people from the Dinee natives and come to see for himself. But whether he meant ill or was only curious would have to be determined before he could be released.
Turning, she scooped up her bow and strode toward the mountain that curved to form two sides of the open courtyard. The other two walls were made of stone. Some of them had been placed there by God, but the gaps had been carefully filled in by former generations to make the courtyard secure and not obvious from the outside.
She aimed her steps toward Audrey’s quarters. Her sister, Charlotte, would be irked that Brielle wasn’t coming straightaway with news of the stranger, but a healer was of greater import just now. And besides, the girl would be safest away from the stranger until they understood his purpose.
She couldn’t risk losing her sister the same way their mother had been taken.
The burning in Evan’s gut pierced deep, yanking him from the haze of sleep. Scuffling sounded near his head, and he forced his body to remain still as he cracked his eyes. A figure stood over him, and he tensed, preparing for a fight. The person moved in a graceful rhythm, like that of a female.
He opened his eyes wider to make out her features in the dim light. The woman seemed to be working on something. Then, an icy substance touched his middle. He inhaled a sharp breath before he could stop himself.
She glanced at his face, and the light illuminated part of her features. “I’m sorry, but we must clean it.” Glancing up, she nodded at someone across the room, then returned to her work.
The cold spread across his belly as she scrubbed, probably at dried blood. At least, he hoped the stuff had dried and the wound wasn’t seeping still. Each pass of her cloth tugged on his injury with an aching jolt. He forced his focus away from the pain of her movements and looked over to see what she had glanced at.
Another person stood against the far wall. A familiar form with an animal-skin cloak still draped over her shoulders, yet the hood no longer shrouding her face. A single black braid hung down her shoulder, light from a torch flickering off the ebony strands, turning them golden.
He focused on her face, this woman who had so ruthlessly shot him in the gut, then bound him and marched him like a prize turkey back to her tribe—or whatever these people called themselves. In his experience, women were a bit daintier than she’d acted so far. Even the sturdy pioneer stock wore dresses to their ankles and knew their place was cooking and caring for the home. His eyes skimmed unbidden to where her cloak ended, not much past her knees. In the shadows of the room, he could only make out the outline of her lower limbs, which gave his mind just enough leeway to fill in the details.
He jerked his eyes back up to her face, catching her gaze as she studied him with a hostility he’d certainly not earned. He was the one who’d been shot, by saints. It was high time he regain the upper hand, even if his own were still bound. At least they were now tied in front of him instead of behind.
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 to answer, 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.”
He did so, more to make them complacent by his obedience than anything. But the instant relief in his muscles made it hard not to ease out a long breath. This way he could save his strength.
Audrey looked over at the lady warrior. “He needs to rest now.”
The other woman nodded. Even the bob of her chin bespoke an aura of fierceness. For one so young, she appeared to hold a position of importance in the group. And a woman, no less.
She pushed away from the wall and sauntered over to him, the bottom of her animal-skin cloak swaying with each step. She stopped less than a stride away and dropped to one knee.
He could raise his hands and touch her if he wanted. Try to grab her wrist and overpower her. Though he had a feeling gaining the upper hand against this she-warrior would be no small feat. Especially with his wrists still tied.
“What is your name?” Her accent barely came through this time, just enough to give her an air of mystery.
“Evan.” He met her dark gaze squarely. “What is yours?”
Her eyes gave away none of her thoughts. “I am called Brielle.”
The name suited her. Unusual, yet strong.
“And from where do you hail, Evan?”
Hearing his given name in her voice, with that light accent, captured his attention in a way that distracted him. He forced the thought aside and focused on her question. “I’m from the mountain country, but not this area.” Hopefully she would accept that answer. He couldn’t say he was from America. That would likely raise suspicion about his reason for being so far north and so near the British colonies, while the war raged between the two countries.
And he wouldn’t lie. He’d done enough things he wasn’t proud of in his time as a spy, he didn’t need to compound his sins by building a web of deceit. Usually silence or only a snippet of the truth would suffice.
She studied him, and with the shadows, it was impossible to read her thoughts. She looked to be weighing the truth in his words. Did she realize he’d avoided the question?
Perhaps it was time to ask some questions of his own. He tossed a casual glance around the room. “Where are we?”
She followed his gaze, lingering on the man by the door, then on the brown-haired woman who had risen and returned to her position beside the wall. “This is where we hold our prisoners.” She looked back at him, and he could have sworn her eyes held a glimmer of mirth. “You might call it a dungeon.”