Then where would she be? Nowhere at all, with nothing to wait for. No irons in the fire, no plans for her escape. She'd be right back at the beginning, only with all of her resources spent and nothing to show for it.
She couldn't let him go. He was the only thing that was keeping her safe.
He pulled his arm free and turned to face her. "I'm going now."
"You can't. Please. Stay here. What if someone comes?"
"You've still got the knife. You know how to use it—stick the pointy end in as deep as you can. I know, I've felt you do it right."
The twinkle in his eye at the joke faded quickly, replaced by the hardness that she'd spent so much time looking at since he'd come back. "Please, I'm begging you."
She could feel her eyes stinging again, but she wasn't going to cry. She wasn't going to let herself, not again. It wasn't time for tears, it was time to be an adult and make herself heard.
"I am leaving, and you won't stop me." He repeated the words, but he didn't move to leave, even as she waited, still hoping that he would change his mind, but knowing that the odds weren't good.
"Why? You promised me that you would keep me safe."
She watched him work his jaw, chewing on whe
ther or not to answer her. Finally he turned again, rubbing his thumb against the pommel thoughtfully. Facing out. Still he didn't move.
"I built this," he said. "These men, I picked them. I chose each with a purpose, to give us the best odds of coming home alive."
"The best odds of killing, you mean."
"Yes."
"So what? Just—let's go. Please. You can do that. I know you can do it, please just take me away."
"I told you that I can't."
His jaw was tight, now. She could tell that whatever doubt he'd been struggling with before, it was gone now. But even still he waited, though she couldn't begin to say what he was waiting for.
"Because, what, your ego can't take it?"
He took a moment to respond. "Because this is mine, and because he'll destroy them all, the way he's going. I put together the forty men most likely to survive the trip. Now, Valdemar's going to do his best to smash them against the hardest targets he can find."
He turned to her and she again realized how large, how powerful he was. It was constantly present, but some moments drove it home, and now she realized exactly how easy it would be for him to kill her if he chose to.
She looked at the sword-belt on his hip. It looked as if he'd stolen it, though she couldn't say from whom. What had happened while he was away? How had he caught them so quickly, after only a few short days?
Had he killed the previous owner of that belt, or had he just stolen it? Gunnar was many things, but she knew without needing to wonder that he was not afraid of killing. He was no thief, he was a warrior, and whoever was better at fighting deserved the sword as far as he was concerned.
His hands were bruised and torn, the remnants of a hard week. She looked up into his eyes, the hard eyes. A killer's eyes that looked at her like a candle that could be snuffed out at any moment. She didn't like him looking at her like that.
Then she shook her head. What had she been telling herself for the past three days? There was no time for sentimental Deirdre. No time for worrying and fussing. She had to start using her head. Thinking—and acting—to get herself out.
If he left, she was dead. She reminded herself of that. If Gunnar went out there, and things didn't go perfectly, that was the end of her hopes for ever being free again.
The thought helped her get herself under control. She set her jaw and started talking, started acting to get what she wanted.
"If you go out there now, it's the end."
He raised his eyebrows at that, but didn't look as if he'd changed his mind.
"I haven't been out there. Maybe I'm wrong, but it seems like half of those men are completely behind Valdemar. The other half, they're opposed."
"And?"