Sandra Hill (7 page)

When the dust settled, she saw her prisoner, who was apparently not a prisoner anymore. He stood with hands on hips, pieces of rag dangling from his wrists and boots. And he was glaring at her.

“I guess it was not a club,” she said weakly. “How was I to know it was a magic stick?”

“I told you it was a gun,” he said with cold fury and started to walk toward her.

She backed up toward the cave opening. “And how was I to know what a gun does? I know what a gunna is, of course, but ne’er have I heard of a gun. Stop frowning at me. It makes you even uglier. And if I were you, I would worry about that big vein in your forehead.”

With every step he took forward, she took a step back. Forward, back, forward, back. Once she was outside the cave, she took off like a deer, running as fast as her bare feet would take her … which wasn’t far. He threw himself in the air and caught her ankles. They both went down with a thud, faces in the dirt.

Then he turned her over onto her back and lay on top of her. Before she could understand what he was
about, he put white arm rings on each of her wrists. At first, she was puzzled that he would give her jewelry, but she soon realized they were not adornments, but objects that would restrain her, much as her cloth ties had restrained him. Only then did she look up at the troll-man.

His eyes were hard. His lips a thin line of anger. Blood drizzled from various cuts on his face and neck. But all he said was, “Gotcha!”

When trolls go trolling …

The first thing Ian did was signal Cage to back off.

Of course, Cage had run to his aid when he’d heard the gun fire. Luckily, Jamal and his cohorts were five miles away and couldn’t hear. Cage stood ten yards or so behind the woman, grinning. The shrew couldn’t see him there. “Go,” he mouthed.

Cage left, still grinning.

“Get your bloody damn body off of me, troll!”

Not bloody damn likely!
“No, I don’t think so,” Ian said, laughing despite his anger. The witch could have killed them both with her carelessness, and still she thought she could give him orders. Amazing! “And if I’m a troll, you for sure are a trolless, if there is such a thing. Your face is grimy, your hair is greasy, and you stink. Haven’t you ever heard that cleanliness is next to godliness?”

“Do I look like a goddess?” The woman bucked up against him with uncommon strength. She was unable to move him off of her, but she did move him. He was impressed. And just a teeny tiny bit aroused.
How pathetic is that? Hot for a hag. Must be a battle hard-on. Sort of like battle fatigue, but the opposite.

She made a mewling sound of distress, having presumably noticed his teeny tiny arousal, which was no longer teeny tiny. She closed her eyes and inhaled as if for strength. Then she looked him straight in the eye and said, “You won’t take me, troll. I won’t let you.”

At first he didn’t understand what she meant, but then he did, and he was offended. “I do not rape women.”

She shrugged to indicate she wasn’t so sure about that.

“And I am not a troll. I am a U.S. Navy SEAL.” Usually, women were impressed when he told them he was a SEAL. Not this babe.

“Ha, ha, ha!” she mocked him. “And I am a whale.”

Ian had the woman pinned to the ground by his body weight. Her hands were cuffed in front. He could kill her in an instant by pressing his thumbs just so on her neck. And yet he saw not one ounce of fear in her blue eyes. Instead, she was angry. Hey, he was the one who had cause for anger.

“You and I are going to have a talk, Yasmine, but first we’re going to establish some ground rules. You are not going to run away again.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

“Because I will catch you.”

“Sure of yourself, are you?”

“Damn sure.”

“Stop poking me with your … uh, poker.”

He grinned. He couldn’t help himself. “Keep moving, and it keeps poking. Basic biology. Sorry about that.”

“Make it stop being hard.”

“Lady, there isn’t any man alive who could talk
down a hard-on … when he’s lying on top of a soft body.”

“My body is
not
soft.”

“Some parts are.”

“Aaarrgh!”

“That’s what women always say when they’ve lost an argument.”

“You said it, too, before.”

“Ah, but when men say it, they have just cause.”

“My father always said there are only two ways to argue with a woman. And neither of them works.”

“Smart man, your father.”

“Not so smart. He had thirteen children. Get off me, you oaf. You are as heavy as a warhorse.”

“Did anyone ever tell you that you talk too much?”

“Plenty of people. All of them men.”

“And you lie like a rug. Tell the truth and shame the devil, babe.”

“You are the devil, in my opinion. Yea, best you be careful you do not trip over your tail.”

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you that you catch more flies with honey than vinegar?”

“Why in the name of Frigg would I want to catch flies?”

But then she had no more chance to complain because he stood in one smooth movement, bringing her upright with him. Before she had a chance to squawk—and, yes, she began to squawk—he tossed her over his shoulder and carried her back into the cave, kicking and screaming. If there were any tangos in the area, he and the shrieker were dead meat. Cage was probably watching him through his scope and laughing his ass off. “Either shut up or be gagged.”
Where’s the duct tape when a guy needs it? If ever a mouth needed duct tape, this is the one.

She shut up.
Thank God.
Smart lady.

“Is there any water in this cave?” he asked as he put her down on the dirt floor, away from the shards of rock left by the gunshot. It was a miracle that the weapon had been pointed toward the cave opening. Some angel must have been watching over them.

Yasmine immediately tried to get up, but he shoved her back down, probably a little too hard, but, really, he’d had enough of her nonsense. He quickly attached the plastic cuffs to her ankles to further restrain her.

“I asked you a question. Answer me.”

She zipped her lips. Just what he’d expected her to do.

“That’s okay, cupcake. Let’s just take these clothes off and see if you have any injuries that aren’t visible.” He proceeded to lift the hem of her filthy garment, exposing long and well-shaped legs, something he should not be noticing at the moment.

She suddenly found her tongue, as he’d expected she would. “Nay! I’ll answer you. I have no injuries under my gunna. No need to remove my clothing.”

“Suddenly shy, are you?” He smiled at her in a mocking way. He could tell that she’d like nothing more than to clout him over the head with another rock.

“Damn you to hell,” she swore.

“I’m already well on my way there, without your help, sweetie. About the water?”

“There is no water, other than the drippings on the back of the cave wall, down that short
passageway.” She motioned with her head toward the back of the cave. “It satisfied my thirst today, but it tastes like dragon piss.”

“You’ve got a foul mouth on you,” he said as he took out his first-aid kit and wet a piece of gauze with a small amount of precious water from the drinking tube leading to the hydration bladder on his back, then held the tube to her mouth. “Here. Take a couple of small sips.”

At first she resisted. Surprise, surprise. She was the kind of woman who resisted everything, even what was good for her. Once she realized that it was not poison, she gulped the water greedily. He had to pull it away. Who knew how long it would have to last them?

He forced her to lie back and knelt at her side. Taking the wet gauze, he began to clean the cuts on her face, some of which were still seeping blood. “Most of the wounds are just superficial, but the one above your left eye probably needs a butterfly clip,” he remarked as he worked, dabbing and applying antiseptic.

“I have no idea what you said. Just do what needs to be done.”

He took a metal suture from his kit and leaned forward. “This is going to hurt.”

“You cannot hurt me any more than others have done.” She closed her eyes and did not even wince when he clamped the pieces of skin together. He finished cleaning up the blood as best he could with the small amount of water.

“That’ll have to be good enough for now.”

“You have cuts on your face, too. Release me so I can minister to you.”

“No way!”

She made a tsk-ing sound of disgust, then remarked, “You look ugly with that black on your face.”

“Thanks for the compliment.” Ian was sensitive about his receding hairline, but he had a passable face and a superior body, thanks to SEALs training. No one had ever called him ugly before, and it rankled a bit.

It was then that he noticed the thin welt around her throat. It was not a new scar. Suddenly he recalled something he’d seen but not taken note of in passing. Looking down, he saw the same welts around her wrists and ankles.

“Sonofabitch!” he muttered under his breath. “Who did this to you?”

“A man,” she replied flatly. Her eyes were wide open now. And she clearly put him in the same category as the kind of man—or men—who’d done this to her.

He shook his head. “Not a man. A beast.”

She shrugged. “It has been my experience that all men fall into that category.”

“Then your experience hasn’t been wide enough.”

“Just like a man, defending his own.”

“I am
not
defending this,” he said, tracing the scar on her neck with a forefinger.

She shivered and turned her face away from his touch.

“Was it Jamal who did this to you?”

She frowned. “I know no Jamal.”

“Whatever you say, honey.”
Even now, she protects the bastard. Is it love or fear? Not my problem. The CIA guys will get all the info they want from her … one way or another.
For some reason, that prospect
bothered him. Not that they would hurt her physically, but they would play with her mentally, and if she was one of the tangos, God help her.

He stood and began to put the first-aid supplies away.

“Were you able to escape my ties from the beginning?”

“Yes.”

“Much as I try to be a leader to my men at Norstead, I am still a woman and not made for battle games.” She exhaled loudly with disgust at herself. “I must do better. When I get back.”

Ian had no idea what she meant, but he empathized with her feelings of failure at not living up to some standard. In his case, it was his father, Rear Admiral Thomas MacLean, who set the bar too high for him. Who was it for Yasmine? Jamal? Or someone else? Perhaps a cause … like a religious jihad? “Don’t feel bad. You tied me good. I should know. I’m an expert at these things.”

“Because you are a seal?” she said, no longer mocking, just tired. “I am going to close my eyes for a moment … just for a moment. Are you going to ravish me whilst I sleep?”

“I promise I’ll restrain myself.”

His dry humor was lost on her. “Swear it on your sword … uh, weapon.”

He laughed. “I swear it on my rifle.”

“Nay, your knife.”

“Okay, I swear it on my K-Bar.”

“Good,” she said and fell into an instant, deep sleep. She must have been exhausted. Probably hadn’t slept at all, hiding out here, worried about being caught.

He sat back on his haunches, hands on his thighs, and for several long moments just studied her. She was a mess. Bruised, dirty, disheveled. There was nothing attractive about her.

And yet …

And yet …

Ian’s heart squeezed and he felt breathless just looking at her. What did it mean?

Shaking his head to clear it, he stood, put the safety on his rifle, put his knife back in his boot and prepared to leave. He was here on a mission, which would not wait, not even for a woman who might very well be one of the rats herself.

He clicked on his headset and said, “Force, Force.” It was the code word for their op, as well as the name of their squad. “Can you hear me?”

“Cage here.”

“I’m heading out.”

“What about the tango’s honey?”

“Restrained.”

“Be careful.”

“Always.” He clicked off.

Outside the cave, he cut several bushes and put them in front of the cave opening to hide it from any passers by. The whole time he kept worrying about Yasmine, which was not only ridiculous, it was dangerous. There was always the chance that he wouldn’t be able to come back … in which case, Yasmine would die of starvation in the cave, restrained as she was. But he couldn’t in good conscience release her, either. He should not care. If he followed strict Navy and SEAL policy, he would consider the mission and only the mission.

At the last minute, he sighed in surrender, pulled
the bush aside and went back inside. It was the scars on her neck and wrists and ankles that had done him in, or so he told himself.

No woman should be so mistreated,
one side of his brain said.

Unless she is a terrorist,
the military side of his brain said.

There is no proof yet.

You are kidding yourself.

My instincts urge caution.

It’s your funeral, buddy.

Squatting down to his haunches, he set his water bladder a few feet away from her still sleeping body. She must have been bone-deep exhausted. The tube was near her mouth. She would recognize it when she opened her eyes. In addition, he unwrapped a granola bar and put it near her face, too. Then he put his knife several feet away. It would take her a long time to get to the knife and even longer to manage to slit her ties. He should be back long before then. But if not …

He hoped he wouldn’t be sorry.

Then he took off to join his squad.

Even trolls have a good side …

Hours later, Madrene awakened.

It took her several moments to recall where she was. It was still daylight; she could see that, although something had been placed in the cave opening … probably a bush. Her wrists and ankles were restrained by the white armlets. Her shoulders ached from lying in one position for so long.

She turned over on her side, and the first thing she noticed was that the troll was gone.
Good,
she thought, but she missed his presence.
How odd!