Page 74 of A Bluestocking’s Secret Courtship

Twenty-seven

Throughout the night Jonathan left Evangeline to patrol the perimeter only to return to her, tucking her against him. Once, she had turned into his embrace and burrowed her face into the crook of his neck. Her warm breath had skimmed across his skin, and he’d almost surrendered to sleep.

His eyes were gritty when he crawled from the tent at the first signs of dawn. He would let Evangeline and Timothy sleep until sunrise before packing up camp.

Sagging against the boulder, he blinked hard. The burning eased. He blinked several more times, his eyelids heavier each time he opened them. The hike down the mountain would be harder for him with no sleep, but once they reached the village at the base, he’d find lodging for them. Evangeline needed a good meal to restore her strength before they continued on to Athens, too.

He exhaled.

Stinging pain exploded in his scalp as his head jerked back. Hard metal pressed against his neck.

“You in territory,” a man said in broken English. “Who are you?”

Faith! They knew he spoke English. How long had they been watching him and Evangeline?

Jonathan swallowed hard, the knife gliding over his neck. “P-performers.”

Five men towered over him with wide-legged stances, relaxed. They wore simple, dark clothing—tunics, loose trousers, dusty leather vests. Short swords hung at their hips alongside daggers or pistols. Men who fought for a living.

They had moved through the camp without a sound. Professional. Deadly. A cold sweat engulfed him.

One of the warriors crouched near the tarp, looking inside.

“We’re performing at a wedding,” Jonathan blurted. “My wife and I.”

The man in charge nodded. The knife fell away from Jonathan’s neck, and he was jerked to his feet and pulled away. The leader spoke to his subordinate standing guard over the tent. Before he could follow whatever order he had been given, Evangeline came out.

Jonathan’s breath froze in his lungs.

“I see we have visitors,” she said, her gaze sizing up the warriors. “How may we help you gentlemen?”

The leader’s mouth twitched as if he was amused. “Why you are in territory?”

“Oh, dear! Have we trespassed on your land?” She frowned at Jonathan. “I told you to ask for directions. We thought this was the way to Arachova.”

Jonathan simply stood there with his mouth hanging open.

“Why go?” the leader asked.

“To Arachova? We’re performing at a wedding. My husband plays drums and dances.” She nodded toward the frame drums leaned against a tree. One of the warriors went to investigate.

“And you dance?” the man in charge asked.

“No, no,” she said with a soft chuckle. “I’m an artist. I draw portraits. Do you want to see? My sketchbook is in the saddlebag.”

The leader barked an order, and the warrior inspecting Jonathan’s drums dug through the saddlebags. When he found her sketchbook, he brought it to the leader.

The leader flipped through the pages, pausing every so often to murmur with approval. Her drawings were magnificent. Her story was believable.

He closed the book and passed it to her. “Good.”

“Thank you,” she said, pink rushing into her cheeks. “I-I will draw you if you like.”

“No, you good, but me not good to look at. Too old.”

She smiled and politely disagreed. “Older faces are more interesting to draw.”

He chuckled, then must have repeated what she said to the hunting party. They laughed along. One of the warriors thumped him on the back, while another bent over, walking like he was decrepit. The leader fired back, but all of them were laughing.