“You’re safe now,” he repeated, not knowing what else to say. He had no idea if she even understood him. She looked Spanish, but she might be Basque. Or even French, he supposed. She hadn’t said a word so far.
In French he repeated that she was safe, and that he would not harm her. Her eyes flashed hatred at the sound of his French—she was Spanish, then—so he said, “I am English. I will not harm you.” He knew no Basque, so he stuck to Spanish.
There was a long pause, then a violent shudder passed through her and she started to shiver.
Instinctively he reached out to hug her, but she flinched away, the rock raised and ready to strike.
He stepped back, holding his palms up. “Sorry. I simply meant to comfort you.”
The golden eyes burned with doubt.
“You’re the same age as my little sister,” Luke said helplessly. He stared for a moment, silently cursing himself. Stupid thing to say. What would she care of his sister?
He was almost twenty years old, a man—an officer—and yet, for the first time in his life, he had no idea what to do.
He was no stranger to women, and having grown up with three sisters, he’d imagined he understood the female sex pretty well. But he’d never faced anything like this before.
He wished his mother was here. She’d know what to do with this girl, how to reassure her. He’d even welcome his bossy older sisters, Susan and Meg. They were both married, but not Molly. Not his baby sister, turning thirteen next month.
Please God Molly would never have to know such evil existed.
The young girl’s legs were long and skinny and shockingly naked under his coat. With one hand, she tugged down the hem, still gripping the rock in her other hand.
Turning his back on her, Luke went to fetch her clothing, which was scattered about the clearing. He picked up a long skirt, part of a riding habit. It dangled in shreds from his hands. He found a short brown coat, beautifully made of good quality fabric. Now ruined. Every item of her clothing was shredded, unwearable. The swine must have cut every garment from her. But why cut it to shreds?
“You will find no jewels there,” a hoarse little voice grated from behind him.
The jewels are gone.
“I know nothing about any jewels,” Luke told her. “I simply wanted to return your clothing to you. Take my shirt. It’s long—longer than that coat—and will cover you decently. It was clean on this morning.” He pulled his shirt off over his head and tossed it to her.
She made no move to catch it. It fluttered to the ground at her feet. Her eyes burned.
She needed time to calm down. “Tend to yourself,chiquita.” He nodded to where a small stream gurgled at the far corner of the clearing. “While you wash the blood and dust from your body, I will bury this swine. Then we shall talk.”
He whistled, and in a moment his horse, Brutus, appeared. He kept a small spade in his pack—it was useful for fires and digging trenches around his tent on wet nights.
From the corner of his eye he saw the girl scoop up his shirt and bend over the man. Checking for herself that he really was dead, Luke supposed. He didn’t blame her.
He found a gully on the opposite side of the clearing and began to enlarge it, digging a hole big enough to bury a man in.Not a man; a beast.
After a few minutes, he noticed the girl edging toward the stream, watching him all the time. Good. She would feel better when she was clean.
He scraped and dug until the sweat rolled down his body. The thin mountain soil was hard and stony. A shallow grave was all this bastard deserved.
He paused for a moment, glad of his bare torso and the breeze that cooled him, and glanced toward the stream. She was taking a long time about that wash. She sat with her back to him, waist deep in the cold mountain stream, scrubbing herself vigorously.
A prickle of unease ran over him as he watched her, and without knowing quite why, he found himself quietly approaching the stream. His shirt and coat lay neatly folded on the riverbank, and beside them lay the deserter’s wicked-looking knife, the blade now clean of all blood. Ye gods, she must have pulled it out of his body.
She was scrubbing herself with coarse river sand, grabbing handfuls of the rough substance and rubbing it into tender skin, hard.
“Stop it,niña! Stop it!” Luke took a step toward her, hesitated because she was naked, snatched up his shirt from the bank of the stream, and waded in, boots and all. Her fists flailed at him blindly, but he dropped his shirt over her head, wrapped the sleeves around her tightly, and lifted her from the water. And held on.
She fought him like a little wildcat, writhing, kicking, and trying to bite him, but he’d expected that, after seeing her under attack before, and he’d made sure to wrap his shirt around as much of her as he could in an attempt to swaddle her.
He simply held her tight, murmuring soothing words in a mixture of English and Spanish. Slowly his words penetrated her panic, and she seemed to realize he was making no attempt to hurt her. Gradually her struggles became less violent, and eventually they ceased.
His grip on her eased. She turned big golden brown eyes on him, glittering with exhaustion.
