Page 3

“How French of them,” he said, taking the bottle from her with his good hand, but even grasping the bottle made pain flash up his broken arm. He certainly felt beaten to a pulp, that was for sure. Bits of memory were coming back to him. This woman, Elena, was the angel from his dreams. “Why are you helping me?”

She took the now-full bottle away. “Good. No blood in your urine.” Leaving him for a moment gave him a moment of panic, but she was back soon enough, pressing his ribs, which made him groan in pain. “I was given no choice,” she said plainly. “They came and took me and told me to keep you alive. So, here I am.”

He watched her as she moved around the dim room, but his eyes were having trouble focusing. “Thank you,” he said.

Coming back to the table he lay on, she said, “You must drink this. We cannot let the French believe you are well enough for another bout of…” she trailed off, averting her gaze.

He didn’t even question what it was that he was drinking. Gulping it down, he stared up at the ceiling. “You should let me die,” he said, turning his head to look at the light fuzzy figure in front of him.

“So you said, many times.”

“Then why am I still here?”

“Because I willed it. I cannot help you escape if you are dead.”

“Escape?” The draft she gave him was making him feel sleepy again.

“One more day. That is all we have. Tomorrow night when you wake you will come with me. They will never find us, these estúpido Frenchies.”

She was still talking, but her voice faded to a murmur. He blinked, trying to stay awake, but his eyelids slowly closed. Escape. Freedom. She may as well have said gold or treasure for all that he believed she could give them to him.

Freedom meant many things to a man lying naked and broken in a decrepit room in an ancient fort in a foreign country. Freedom to die, freedom to live, freedom to leave this place. Freedom to dream, to hope. She had all the cards in her hands. He could do nothing but trust that she knew how to play them. One more day. Could he will himself to hold on until then?

*

He was finally out of it. Elena knew he would be full of questions—she would, had their places been reversed. Instead, she had drugged him again, hoping it would last until she returned tomorrow afternoon. Then and only then would she allow him to wake fully. The man appeared intelligent despite the thrashing his head had taken. She had used that as her excuse as to why he was still asleep. The guards had shown their displeasure, and she’d had to show them all his injuries and how she was treating them. Elena could have told them anything, as they simply nodded at everything she said. It was doubtful they knew enough Spanish to keep up with her, but she did not care. Their understanding of his injuries was more like a checklist for her.

If only she could see their faces when they came to get him and found both of them gone and with no idea how they got out. That was the thing. They were not leaving the fort at all. They were simply hiding out in the lesser-known parts of it. While her enemies would be scanning the town and the surrounding areas for them, they would be right under their noses, literally.

She realized she did not even know this man’s name, and yet she was risking her life to help him. Unfortunately, she was on her chosen course now, and she wouldn’t abandon him. There was something about him that…moved her. It was silly, really, though she told herself it was her doctor’s vow. How could she leave him, knowing he would be killed?

When the next day dawned, the French arrived to escort her to her house in the village. They rode on horseback, and she was in the cart they took to get supplies. Everyone in the village knew they were there, but there were no Spanish soldiers stationed nearby to call on to rid them of these pests, only old men and cripples.

One Frenchman stayed to guard her while the others went into the village to raid the markets. She bathed quickly, putting on the last of her clean clothes. Out in the garden, she was grateful her neighbor Christina had been watering her plants. The contents would all be hers once Elena was gone. She had left her neighbor a letter by the pump, along with the deed to the house. Elena had no use for it now. Better one of Christina’s sons lived in it—if the French didn’t burn it down. Elena warned her to be ready if the house was set alight. She gathered all she could from the garden: carrots, potatoes, late beans, and some apples, oranges, and lemons from her trees, along with her usual herbs. She picked some chamomile flowers for tea. They would not blink an eye at her overflowing basket; they never did.

By the time the cart arrived back, she was a nervous wreck, but she could not show it. She pretended to be napping as they lumbered back to the fort. Elena opened her eyes when she could smell the salty tang of the Mediterranean Sea, hear the deep drumming notes of waves in the small cove far below. Farther to the right lay the Strait of Gibraltar, that deep channel so favored by trading ships.

They clattered over the loose stone road that led to the fort and stopped. She jumped off the cart, gathered her basket, and followed a guard into the open area, once used to parade Spanish soldiers, and then on to the open mouth of the fort. A pitiful sight now, its once glorious stone façade crumbled on one side. So much for the magnificent fortifications of Spain. Her father had sketched it once, how he had imagined it must have looked in the days of the height of the Spanish Armada.

She was just thankful that her brother had let her come along with him and his friends as they explored the ruins. It was an adventure back then, but now it could save not only her life but the Englishman’s as well. A lump formed in her throat and caused her eyes to burn with tears as yet unshed as she took one last look at her village in the distance. Thankfully, they had entered the darker part of the fort, so the guard would not see her tears. He unlocked the door, and she nodded her thanks, although why she was thanking him she was not sure, and entered the room for what she hoped would be the last time.

The Englishman was still there. Still as a corpse. Elena dropped her basket and put her fingers to his neck, searching for his pulse. She exhaled. He was still alive. The guard looked at him and said to her, “We should kill him and be done with it, but Dushard has not finished playing with him yet.”

“There is a chance he may never wake from this coma,” she told him. “What then?”

The soldier shrugged. “We will make a decision tomorrow. Perhaps we will throw him off the cliff. That would be amusing.”

She said nothing, but then he grabbed her roughly by the chin. “Perhaps we will throw you off too, eh?” Then he laughed, a cruel chuckle meant to scare her. “Au revoir.”

It felt like an age before she heard the key in the lock turn. She let out the breath she had been holding. Her limbs threatened to give way, and she had to hold on to the table for strength. She had been right to plan. Right to make these choices of life over death. Perhaps, deep inside, she knew they would never let her leave, not until she was dead at any rate.

Elena had already cleared the way to the tunnel that was hidden under her worktable. After they left, she would ensure the rocks were repositioned to prevent anyone from following them. Would her patient have enough strength to crawl the short way? He would not be able to do it the conventional way, as he had his broken arm, but would have to shimmy on his back. It would not be easy for him, but once in the next chamber, he would be able to rest before moving on. She had already stowed her basket and her small bag of clothes through the hole. All that was needed now was to go.

Elena looked down at the man. She could leave right now, by herself, leave him to his own fate. She could, but she wouldn’t. Just the thought of what they might do to him made her stomach churn. To keep herself busy, she made some broth over the small fire in the corner and waited for the Englishman to wake.

Time ticked by like she was waiting for the pot to boil. She checked his wounds, then his pulse, then decided to dress the lower half of him as best she could, trying with all her might not to look too closely at his manly parts. She tied her hair in a braid. And sat. And waited. Unfortunately, she could not know how long it would be before he woke from the stupor she had put him in.

*