because it would be 'inconvenient.'
He must be rescued. But how?
She would find a way.
Chapter 25
Kyle watched as a sliver of light from the high window moved slowly across the walls, like the sands of an hourglass marking out the minutes of his life. Morning had brought no inspiration. His sentence couldn't be appealed even if he spoke the language, not when the highest-ranking official in the region wanted him dead.
Nor could he escape his dungeon. The window was too narrow to allow a well-fed rat to escape. The cell contained damp straw and four rings welded into the stones with short chains dangling from them, but nothing else. Hoping for a weapon, he'd examined the chains, and concluded that removing them from the rings would be impossible without tools and time.
Even if he managed to overpower the guards with his bare hands the next time they brought him a small portion of rice and weak tea, he'd never make it out of the compound. No, his time had run out, and it was his own damned fault.
The loose Chinese garments made it easy to sit cross-legged like a Buddhist monk on the damp straw. Mentally detaching himself from his bruises and lacerations, he reached for the inner peace he'd found at Hoshan. Mysterious were the ways of the divine. Was that why he'd been so intensely drawn to the painting of the temple, because he had a date with his own death in China?
No, he was too much a European to believe in that kind of destiny. His luck had simply run out. He'd faced danger often in his travels, and several times had survived against long odds, but no man's luck held forever.
His idle gaze fixed on a rivulet of water flowing down the side wall, one of several caused by heavy rain during the night. The moisture seeped from between the stones and trickled away down a small drain, the cell's feeble attempt at sanitation. This place was an invitation to a slow, painful death from fever or ague. At least he wouldn't be here long enough to have that to worry about.
Should he have stayed home, like a good heir? He'd have probably lived another forty years if he had.
No, that narrow, dutiful life had been driving him to desperation. He couldn't regret following his dreams, though it was a pity about the lost forty years…
The door squealed open and the sergeant entered, sword at the ready and followed by two burly guards. As the sergeant muttered what sounded like filthy insults, his men dragged Kyle to his feet and removed the chain connecting his manacles, leaving the heavy iron cuffs around his wrists. Maybe he was being taken out for another audience with the prefect?
Instead, the guards slammed him against the wall and attached his cuffs to the rusting chains that hung from the rings welded into the wall. Kyle swore and tried to fight them, but the guards were adept. A gut-punch to slow him down, then a swift snapping of locks so that he was spread-eagled against the wall.
His skin crawled at his utter helplessness, for he couldn't move any part of his body more than a few inches. The sergeant smiled, his crooked teeth white against the bruised face Kyle had given him the night before. Slowly he removed a dagger from the sheath at his side, turning it so that light glinted from the sharply ground blade. He could slice off any body parts he chose as long as the prisoner was alive for the next morning's execution.
Despite his best efforts at control, Kyle flinched when the sergeant suddenly stabbed the knife down viciously. But he wasn't aiming to wound. Instead, Kyle's loose tunic was slashed from shoulder to hem without cutting the rigid flesh underneath.
The sergeant bared his teeth with satisfaction. Another slash, this one at Kyle's crotch. Once more the glittering blade cut only loose fabric. It was amazingly sharp-Kyle thought of the Crusader story of how Saladin's Damascus steel sword had been so sharp that a silk scarf that fell on it was cleaved in half.
He made himself think of the Crusades. Had Saladin and Richard Lionheart been on the second or the third Crusade? No matter-all of the Crusades had been damn fool projects that cost countless lives.
Concentrating on history kept his face impassive during the sergeant's next two slices. Besides, the mind could hold only so much fear, and Kyle had reached his limit.
Disgusted, the sergeant sheathed his dagger, delivered a casually brutal slap across his prisoner's face, and led his men away, leaving Kyle shaking. Though his mind might have accepted death, his body was less philosophical.
He tested the chains. Despite surface rust, they were strong enough to hold an elephant. Sitting or lying down was impossible. If he fell asleep he'd hang painfully from the manacles and wake up in agony. Not that he was likely to sleep. With so few hours left, he didn't want to waste any.
Though the manacles weren't painful in themselves, being unable to move was a subtle form of torture. A rivulet flowed behind him, and soon his cotton garments would be saturated. A mosquito buzzed around his face before settling to gorge on his neck, and he couldn't slap it away. Phantom itches began crawling over his limbs.
Forget the physical irritations; at least he was still in a position to itch. Tomorrow at this time he'd be a corpse buried without name or honor, or tossed out to feed the dogs.
A series of slow, deep breaths began to restore his calm. Then the door swung open again. He stiffened. The sergeant coming back for more cat-and-mouse games?
A thin, shabby laborer entered, the door behind him slamming shut and the key turning with ugly finality. The dim light made it hard to see details-until the newcomer looked up from under the wide straw hat with Troth's beautiful brown eyes.
'Christ, they caught you, too?' Instinctively he moved toward her, only to be jerked up short by the chains, the iron cuffs biting into his wrists and ankles.
She shook her head and touched a finger to her lips, waiting while the guards who'd brought her marched away with heavy footsteps. When she was sure they were gone, she turned toward him. Her eyes widened in horror as they adjusted to the dim light and she saw how he was chained. 'Gods above!'
'They've got me trussed like a Christmas goose,' he said matter-of-factly. 'How did you get in if you're not a prisoner?'
She embraced him, her arms sliding between him and the wall. Her hat fell backward to hang on its neck cord as she pressed her face into the angle of his throat and shoulder. She was exquisitely warm and soft, a reminder of all the world's pleasures.
'I bribed my way in,' she said huskily. 'In China, almost anything can be done if one has enough money to pay the squeeze required.'
He'd learned that himself in the East. Even so, it was dangerous for her to have come, but he wasn't unselfish enough to wish that she hadn't. He rubbed his cheek against her hair, aching to hold her. 'I'm amazed that even a bribe could get you in here to see a dangerous spy like me.'
When she tensed, he said quietly, 'I know that I'm under sentence of death, so you don't have to be the one to break the news.'
She made a choked sound and retreated, her hands still touching his waist. 'I told the guards I'd lived in Canton and knew the ways of
'What a clever girl you are.' His gaze fastened on the curve of her ear. How could he not have noticed how elegant it was? 'Lord knows I'm glad to see you, but the sooner you leave, the better. Those brutes might not stay bought for very long.'
'But I came to help you escape.' She looked at the chains and bit her lip.
