Wildfire (Fire 3)

She rolled over onto her back, shivering slightly, careful to keep her legs limp and unresponsive. She knew where the cameras were, and while it was always possible Archer no longer had anyone watching her, she couldn’t afford to take a chance.

Things had been the status quo for so long she’d thought she could afford to spend two more weeks in endurance training. It was early November—she’d randomly chosen the fifteenth as a good day to escape. In the past Archer had always returned to the mainland around that time, which coincided with his birthday. His elderly father was still alive, though with borderline dementia, and Archer made it a habit to visit him. The elder MacDonald probably didn’t recognize his son anymore. With a certain amount of glee Archer had informed her that the old man had forgotten her existence years ago, and the one time she’d met him, he hadn’t had much use for Archer. It had been startling, after watching everyone fawn over her husband, to see someone who didn’t seem to adore him, but later she decided that Armstrong MacDonald probably knew far too well exactly who and what her husband was. He’d reacted to her with a slightly impatient pity, which had disturbed Sophie even more at the time.

&nbs

p; Now she knew why.

Joe always accompanied Archer when he left the island, but there would still be more than a handful of people watching her, people with strict orders to keep her in line. It was possible everyone on the island would be more alert when Archer was gone. It was just as possible they’d slack off, particularly if she did nothing to draw attention.

Time was running out—she knew that as surely as she knew her own name. She could double her middle-of-the-night training efforts. She could fool anyone in the world, including Archer, that she was content in her confinement. At least she thought she could. With someone like Mal Gunnison she wasn’t quite so certain—if anyone could see through her charade, he would be the one.

But why would he bother? He was probably no better than Archer, and she would fall very low on his radar. She just wished he hadn’t carried her through the rain, his hard, hard body holding hers. It had been so long since she’d been aware of any man—maybe her libido wasn’t dead after all. She had to put that out of her mind—she’d have more than enough time to explore her libido once she got off the island.

She closed her eyes. It was late. She’d had Joe draw the room-darkening shades over the window, telling him she planned to nap, but even in the murky darkness sleep was the furthest thing from her mind.

She couldn’t stop thinking about Mal. Who is he? Why is he here?

She closed her eyes. She wasn’t interested in watching movies, reading turgid Russian prose, or listening to the audiobooks that Emilia, one of the maids, would lend her when no one was looking. If she thought she had a chance in hell of getting away with it, she would have found a way to sneak into the room next door and see if she could find out any answers about Malcolm Gunnison, but the cameras would pick up her movements, and given her luck, Mal could return just as she was in the middle of it. She had no choice but to stay where she was.

She was weary, confused, with too many things batting at her. The likelihood of Archer summoning her down to dinner again was low. She closed her eyes, listening to the steady beat of the rain against the terra-cotta tiles on the roof, and drifted off.

She heard him come into the room. She’d always been a light sleeper, and after the Committee she’d trained herself to wake at even the slightest unexpected breath. Someone was there, and she had absolutely no idea who it was.

Common sense told her it was Rachel, snooping again, but even the practically silent tread sounded as if belonged to a male. Not Joe’s shuffle, and no other male servants would come upstairs. It had to be Archer, or Mal.

She wanted it to be Mal, and that truth was such a shock that her eyes opened, when normally she would have feigned sleep. The man was sitting in the darkness, watching her, and she could barely see his silhouette. It’s all right, she told herself hurriedly. Of course she wanted it to be Malcolm. Malcolm had no reason to hurt her. Neither did Archer, but that had never stopped him before.

“There you are, sleepyhead,” Archer cooed in a soft voice. “I wondered when you were going to wake up.”

She lifted her head, summoning a sleepy smile. He wanted her to show fear, and that was the one thing she refused to do. “Have you been here long?”

“A while,” he said. “I wanted to talk to you about Mal.”

“It’s probably not a good idea,” she said in a low voice. “These walls aren’t that thick. He could hear you.” Please leave, she thought desperately, showing none of it. Please, please leave.

Archer leaned forward, and she could see the gleam of his oversized white teeth in the murky light. “That’s why I chose now. Your friend Malcolm has gone for a walk, and he’s halfway out to the sugar mill, according to my men. He won’t be back for at least an hour.”

“But it’s raining,” she said. Archer could be lying, just trying to spook her. Tormenting her was one of his favorite pastimes, but he enjoyed psychological torture as much as he enjoyed hurting her.

“You’ve been asleep. It stopped half an hour ago.” He rose, slowly approaching the bed. “I’m not happy about the way you look at my guest.”

How do I look at his guest? Sophie thought in confusion. She’d done everything she could to appear unaffected by his presence. And hadn’t he wanted Malcolm to seduce her?

She knew what was coming then. Archer never needed an excuse—he used whatever popped into his head. Malcolm was far away from any noise she or Archer might make, and her stomach was a knot.

She pushed her body up into a sitting position, smiling at him hopefully. The first blow across her face almost threw her off the bed.

Sophie lay on her stomach, fighting the need to curl up in the fetal position and hold her arms against herself. She sucked in her breath, listening to her body, trying to catalog what he’d done to her. She’d always been good with pain, and as far as she could tell he’d done nothing that would interfere with her escape. He hadn’t bothered hitting her legs—he believed she had no feeling in them and that wasn’t any fun for him. As long as she could run, she was in good shape.

Her arm hurt—he’d wrenched it. That could a problem if she had to row, but she’d deal with that later. Right then all she wanted to do was lie still and regain some equilibrium.

She heard the scratching noise from a distance, and she lifted her head. It was so quiet she thought she might have imagined it, but she had never been prey to her imagination. Were there mice on Isla Mordita? Even worse, were there snakes?

She pushed herself up slowly, remembering to keep her legs still. She hated snakes with a fiery passion—a silly weakness that she hadn’t managed to overcome. She’d used her mental training to survive the endless days in the bedroom, the removal of any meaningful human interaction, Archer’s occasional temper tantrums like the one today, fits of rage that never had any rhyme or reason, and she figured she’d done a decent job of it. Once she got free she wasn’t going to curl up in a weeping bundle of PTSD.

But she hadn’t been able to meditate away her fear of snakes.

She heard the sound again, coming from the deck outside the door, and she froze, as the knob turned and the door was slowly pushed open.