that hill,” Sebastian began.
“But your comrades don’t bathe. You would have been wiser had you followed their example.”
Sebastian controlled his amusement, meeting the dark eyes steadily. “I’m afraid I don’t have much of value.”
She made a quick downward survey. The point of the blade, pressed hard against his throat, never wavered. When her eyes lifted again, they were amused.
“So I see,” she said.
As his gaze followed hers, Sebastian discovered that the wet knit underdrawers clung revealingly to his anatomy, exposing his body as clearly as if he had been wearing nothing at all. And incredibly, Sebastian Sinclair, who had bedded more than his share of opera dancers and actresses, felt a rush of blood stain his cheeks.
The women he knew would have been embarrassed by his state of undress. Or they would have pretended to be. Certainly none of them would have been able to deliver that set-down with such poise.
“Don’t worry,” she went on. “I’m interested only in your clothes.”
“My clothes,” he repeated, feeling at a distinct disadvantage as the exchange unfolded.
“The clean ones,” she clarified. “If you would be so kind as to lay them out for me in a separate stack…”
“Perhaps you believe that I have an unlimited wardrobe,” he said, thinking that this demand was outside of enough.
She was welcome to his money, but he’d be damned if he’d hand over his only decent change of clothing. Even as he reached that decision, he acknowledged that his reluctance to do so was probably as much a matter of pride as necessity.
“But I assure you I do not,” he continued before she had a chance to speak. “Everything that has not been lost to swollen rivers, thieves or bloodstains during the last two years lies before you.”
“And I wish it to be in a separate stack, if you please,” she said again, obviously unmoved by that recital of disaster.
It seemed to Sebastian that as she said it, the point of the blade bit more deeply into the small dimpled depression it was creating at the base of his throat.
“I assure you,” she went on, “that I have more need of them than you. If you will give me your name and your regiment, perhaps I can arrange to have them returned to you when I have finished with them. Would that be satisfactory?”
He was struck again by her command of the language. Despite the accent, the words themselves might have been exchanged in any London drawing room. If one were to divorce them, of course, from the highly unusual nature of the subject they were discussing.
“I believe I prefer to keep them with me. It’s so difficult to know where one will be in…?” He hesitated, inviting her confidence about when she believed she would be finished with his clothing.
The smile that had almost broken through her control before twitched again at her lips. “Perhaps you are right. My plans are unsettled as well, so I should not lead you to expect the return of your garments. And now, if you please…”
There was no doubt about the increased pressure of the point this time. He felt the tip pierce the skin of his throat. Warm blood trickled downward over flesh chilled by his recent immersion in the water.
Clearly that prick was a warning. One he stubbornly didn’t heed. For several long seconds they continued to stand, frozen in their adversarial positions, eyes locked in challenge, each refusing to give in.
And then, the sound distinct above the rush of the river, they heard the ring of horses’ hooves on the rocks high above them. She glanced up, her eyes widening. Whether from shock or by design, the point of the sword was moved back a fraction of an inch. Away from his throat. Freed from its imprisonment, he turned his head, moving very slowly so as not to provoke retaliation.
His eyes were drawn to the top of the ridge behind him. He was hoping Wetherly or one of the others he had spoken to about his intent to bathe had finally realized how long he’d been gone and mounted a search party. Although why they should approach from the opposite bank…
And of course, they were not. Search party this might be, but the men lining the top of that slope were not looking for him.
He estimated that the man riding at their head was perhaps a decade older than his own twenty-nine years. Old enough, then, to be the girl’s father. Or her husband.
He had time to feel an inexplicable jolt of disappointment at that thought. Then the rider gave a sharp command to the others and sent his horse down the incline, seemingly without regard for its safety. Or for his own.
As skilled a horseman as Sebastian was acknowledged to be, he would have been reluctant to try his mount on that precipitous descent. He would certainly not have dared it at this speed.
Apparently the other riders in the party felt the same way. They remained along the crest of the ridge, their horses held near the edge as they watched their comrade’s headlong plunge. And whoever the horseman was, Sebastian thought in quick admiration, he was a superb rider.
“Run,” the girl said.
Surprised, Sebastian pulled his eyes from that astonishing feat of horsemanship and back to her face. It was absolutely colorless. The dark eyes were still wide and, although there had been not a trace of fear in them when she had held him prisoner with his own sword, it was there now. For some reason, he found he didn’t like seeing it.
“Your husband?” he asked, his gaze flicking back to the madman, who was now almost halfway down the slope.
“No.”
She had managed to inject bitterness into the single syllable, the emotion strong enough that it brought his eyes again to her face.
“But he is coming down here for you?”
“He’ll kill you,” she warned. “I never meant for this to happen.” Her eyes considered horse and rider briefly before they focused earnestly on his face. “If you run, I’ll try to distract him long enough to give you a chance to get away.”
Not surprisingly, Sebastian found he didn’t relish the idea of running back into camp clad only in his drawers. If he were killed here, no one would ever know exactly what had happened to him. If he fled in his underwear, like some hotly pursued virgin, he might live, but his fellow officers would dine out on the story for the next twenty years. Not only here, but in London as well.
He could imagine Dare’s face when he heard the tale. The thought of his older brother’s sardonic enjoyment of his predicament was quite enough to ensure the choice Sebastian Sinclair would ultimately make.
He dove toward the pile of garments, throwing articles of his clothing aside until his fingers closed around the pistol he’d concealed beneath them. At any moment, he expected shots to rain down around him. After all, the muskets that the horsemen carried had been in plain sight the entire time.
He rolled away from the scattered clothing and then scrambled, crouching, to his feet, his gaze sweeping the top of the ridge. The men who had lined it seconds before had disappeared. Only the leader was still visible, now guiding his horse into the river on the opposite bank.
