“You’re expecting an enemy attack?” Her voice was derisive.
He ignored her question. “Don’t make the mistake of trying to run. Merlin won’t let you.”
She doubted it, but she wasn’t about to say anything. Merlin had had her back since he showed up on campus, and even if he irrationally adored Bishop, he still knew who his real master was.
She yanked open the drawer beneath her bed, pulled out clean clothes and a towel, and left the trailer before she could be tempted to say anything more.
The clearing was small, the sound of rushing water off to the left, hidden by the woods that surrounded them, and she made a beeline for the thickest growth, relieving herself with a groan of relief. She rose from her uncomfortable position, her legs unsteady, and gathered up her amenities. She had a bottle of Campsuds in the truck, and getting clean would go a long way toward restoring her equilibrium. It was a lot easier to feel hopeless and defeated when you were tired and dirty and sticky. And hungry. She’d been a fool to throw her plate at him last night, she realized. She needed to keep her strength up if she was going to have any chance against him.
The river was little more than an enthusiastic stream, but it was swift moving and the water was cold, even in the little pool it had formed. She glanced around, but there was no sign of Bishop, or Merlin for that matter. If Bishop was watching, then he could go ahead and get an eyeful. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before, though her body had changed in the last five years. She was stronger, leaner, tougher. She’d lost any softness in her skin, and in her soul.
She stripped off her filthy clothes and stepped into the waist-deep pool, shivering as goosebumps covered every exposed inch of her flesh. She hadn’t brought a washcloth with her, so she squeezed the biodegradable soap into her hands and began scrubbing her body, washing away his touch, washing away the grime of the last few days. She’d really counted on the campground showers, but this would just have to do.
Even her scalp itched. At the last minute she ducked her head underwater and scrubbed it with the soap. As a shampoo, Campsuds left a lot to be desired, but the unpolluted water would go a ways toward softening her hair. Her shorter hairstyle had its advantages, but she no longer had the option of braiding it into submission.
She waded out of the stream, shivering, and grabbed her towel, rubbing it briskly over her cold body, when something made her pause. Someone was watching her. It was no surprise—she never considered that Bishop would be trustworthy.
But it didn’t feel like Bishop watching her. Bishop wouldn’t lurk in the wood—he’d just walk boldly into the clearing and make comments about her body while she tried to dress.
She was imagining things. They were alone out here in the middle of nowhere—she didn’t have any idea where they were, if they were even still in Montana.
It was only then that she realized Merlin hadn’t reappeared. He was probably patrolling, but the knot in the pit of her stomach grew. She wouldn’t have thought her situation could get any worse, but she suspected it was about to.
“Merlin!” she called, out, whistling for him. “Here, boy!”
There was no answering crash through the underbrush. Merlin had excellent hearing, and if he were anywhere nearby, he’d be pounding his way back to her. All she could hear was the sound of the stream behind her, the soft rustle of the wind through the leaves.
And she was standing there in her birthday suit, instead of getting her goddamned clothes on like someone with a particle of brains. Knotting the towel around her for added security, she reached down for her underwear—suddenly an arm snaked around her waist, trapping her arms against her body.
It wasn’t Bishop’s hard body. This man was almost as tall, but he wasn’t as strong-looking, and he was dirty, smelling of stale sweat and garlic. “I wouldn’t scream if I were you,” a low, vicious voice whispered in her ear, and she realized that there was a knife against her neck, one that would give Bishop’s blade a run for the money.
Evangeline froze. “What did you do to Merlin?” Her voice came out in a choked whisper.
“Fuck your dog. It’s your partner I’m interested in, and I don’t need a big-ass German shepherd getting in my way. You think I don’t recognize a trained attack dog when I see one? You just behave yourself and after I take care of Edmunds you can go on your way.”
It had only taken her a moment for her panic to subside enough to recognize his voice. It was the surly border guard from the day before, the one Bishop had driven like a bat out of hell to escape. Apparently he hadn’t driven fast enough.
“If you’ve hurt Merlin I’ll kill you,” she snarled.
“You and what army? Just be glad I’m not going to kill you.”
That was a lie. He was going to kill Bishop, or Edmunds, or whatever his name was, and then he’d kill her to tie up loose ends. She didn’t want to die, and to her shock she realized she didn’t want Bishop dead either.
Think, Evangeline, think. The man was too strong—she’d never be able to break free. If she were fully dressed, wearing her boots, then maybe she could have kicked him, but for all intents and purposes she was bare-assed, and for some reason her almost nudity made her feel weak, unable to fight back.
Which was crap. She was just as strong, just as smart with or without her clothes, and if she couldn’t beat him with her body, she could use her brain. “Do you have to hold me so tight?” she complained. “I can barely breathe.”
He didn’t loosen his iron grip. “You’ll survive.”
No, she wouldn’t. She had to get him talking. Was there any chance in the world she could play Mata Hari, seduce him into carelessness? Not hardly likely—even Bishop was no longer interested in her, and for all his lies and treachery, there’d been no doubt that his desire for her had been rea
l.
“What did you do. . . ?” she began, and the sharp, slicing pain in her neck silenced her. She could feel the blood sliding down her chest, dripping into the towel, and she wondered whether he’d cut her throat, whether she was about to bleed out.
“Shut the fuck up,” the man said. “Or I’ll make sure you never say another word.” She could still feel the steel pressed against her, and she let herself feel a moment’s relief. Death might be imminent, but it wasn’t there yet. “Where’s your friend gone off to?”
“Now how can she answer you when you told her you’d cut her throat if she talks?” Bishop’s lazy voice seemed to come from nowhere, and she jerked, trying to see him, but there was no one around.