Sinclair had already finished his bath. He had even managed to coax enough lather from the sliver of lye soap he’d bought from one of the women in the village to allow him to wash his hair. Now he was floating lazily on his back, enjoying the warmth of the water and remembering long summer days back in the peaceful England of his boyhood.
Then, in the midst of those pleasant daydreams, he felt an indefinable prickle of unease along the back of his neck. Too long accustomed to living with danger to ignore such a premonition, he raised his head, slowly allowing his feet to sink until they touched the sandy bottom.
His eyes scanned the rock-cluttered slope he had descended. Finding nothing there to alarm him, he turned to consider the opposite bank of the river, the slope there far steeper and more treacherous than the side held by the English.
There were a dozen places among its ledges and escarpments where someone might hide. Given the loose rock, he believed he would surely have heard them moving into position. His gaze traveled the length of the ridge overlooking the river before he turned his head, again focusing on the English-held side. There was nothing there. No movement. No noise. And yet…
Moving carefully so that no telltale splash would be created by his passage, Sinclair began to make his way back to the spot where he had laid his clothing and his weapons. He could see the small pile they made, its color darker than the tans and yellows of the surrounding rocks.
He had hidden his pistol at the bottom of the stack of garments, but he had placed his sword in the open beside his boots. And he would feel infinitely better when one—or both—was in his hands.
He stepped onto the bank, water streaming down his calves and ankles from the knit drawers he wore. He had debated taking them off during his bath, but in the end he had decided he would feel too vulnerable if completely nude. He was perfectly willing to fight his way out of any manner of tricky situations, but he preferred to do so at least partially clothed.
Which was why, as soon as he reached the heap of clothing, the first thing he reached for was the clean pair of breeches he had taken from the trunk. As his fingers closed around them, something sharp was pressed against the side of his throat, right above the pulsing artery.
Obeying that unspoken command, Sinclair froze. Bent forward in order to reach for his clothing, he was in the perfect position to examine his possessions—the ones that were where he had left them. As well as the one that wasn’t.
It took him less than a fraction of a second to conclude that he was being held captive with his own sword. Out of the corner of his eye, he followed the length of it to the hand on the hilt. And beyond that—
“Stand back, if you please.”
The voice was soft. And it was unmistakably feminine. Although the English in which the order had been given was impeccable, it was also accented.
Sebastian hesitated a heartbeat, wondering what would happen if he allowed his hand to close around the blade and tried to wrest it away from his throat. Since he was aware how fine an edge the tempered steel held, he understood what the immediate consequence of that action would be. If his assailant were quick enough, and courageous enough, that particular consequence might well be followed by other, more serious ones.
Besides, Harry was right. He was bored. And this attempt to rob him—for he had no doubt that’s what was afoot—was less dangerous than the other scenarios that had been running through his brain when he’d left the water.
Despite the fact that the woman was pressing the point of his sword against his throat, he believed that at any time he chose he could take the weapon away from her. And, more important, that he could do it before she managed to inflict any lasting harm.
The desire to see how this played out, or perhaps the urge to get a look at the face that went with that intriguing voice, won out over his first inclination. Moving very slowly, he began to straighten.
The blade followed. As it did, the woman who held it moved in front of him, so that by the time Sebastian was upright, the point of the sword was firmly lodged against his larynx. The line it had traced over his skin burned as if his valet had shaved him too closely.
Face-to-face with his captor, awareness of that discomfort faded to a secondary consideration. Extremely secondary.
In spite of the unusual timbre of her voice, he could never have imagined anyone like the girl—for she seemed little more than that—who stood before him. She was dressed very simply, in the same garments worn by every peasant woman he had encountered in the district. On her, their effect was nothing short of remarkable.
The tail of the dark skirt had been caught up in its own waistband, revealing a froth of embroidered petticoats, two slender ankles covered with white stockings and neat black slippers. An embroidery pattern, which matched that on the petticoats, had been stitched along the neckline of her off-the-shoulder blouse, its fabric only a shade or two lighter than the cream of her skin. Its paleness was in marked contrast to the midnight hair, held away from an oval face by two silver combs.
Her eyes were as black as the curls that tangled over her shoulders. And they were deadly serious.
“In fairness I should warn you that my comrades are just beyond 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