Page 7

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, then fell under the seduction of the poppy.

While he slept, she busied herself, emptying the bucket and preparing some broth in her makeshift kitchen in the hallway. She could not risk leaving the fort just yet. Not until she knew the French had left.

She built a small fire near the end of the hallway where only an arrow slit let light in, but the smoke thankfully dissipated before any escaped. It was far enough away that it would not fill the main room with smoke, either. There she made a vegetable soup as they had not eaten since they had arrived. When he woke, he would be hungry, and he also needed sustenance after his ordeal. She portioned out the bread she had and put the rest away in an old munitions box to be safe from rats and mice.

Returning to the room, she found him awake. She took him a bowl of soup and a piece of bread. Elena watched as he tried to figure out how he could feed himself with only four fingers on one hand, heavily bandaged, and a broken arm on the other. Despite her offer of help, he would not let her.

“I need to figure this out myself. I cannot have you feeding me like an infant.”

“Good because I would make a terrible…nanny.”

He gave her a raised brow but said nothing more, concentrating on balancing the bowl on his thigh, keeping it stable with the fingers of his broken arm while he clasped the spoon between thumb and forefinger on the other. It was frustrating to watch, but she understood his need to do it himself. A man such as he would not want to show weakness. It was different when he could not, but proving to not just himself that he could do it was important. Elena watched as he managed to get the first spoon to his mouth without spilling too much, but even this was not good enough for Tomas, and by the time he had finished the bowl, he had a tentative technique sorted out.

“There, I did it.” His grin of triumph lit up his face.

She just took his bowl from him and said nothing. Was he expecting praise? He would not get it from her. She was not his mother, who might have tousled the dark hair on his head every time he did something for himself when he was a boy. That was not her job. She was to see him well and then see him off.

It was that simple, but would it be hard to see him go?

She could feel his eyes on her as she left the room to go to the kitchen area to wash out the bowls. When she came back in, he leaned against the wall with one knee raised in a casual pose.

“How long do we need to stay here?” he asked.

She shrugged. “That is up to you. You may leave at any time.”

“But you do not recommend it? As my doctor, that is.”

Doctor. He had called her his doctor. A little tingle of pleasure made its way to her face, where surely she blushed. Doctor. A title she had always wanted but could never really have. “Cielos! How far will you get looking like a man who has just escaped a prison? I recommend you let your wounds heal so you do not stand out like the barnacle on a piece of wood.”

He chuckled. “Interesting simile.”

She had no idea what was this simile he spoke of, so she ignored him for a while. He was obviously bored. Why was it that women always had things to do but men must be entertained? Like children.

“Why don’t you start walking about the room so that you build up your strength. You could go up and down the stairs also, just be quiet about it. Use the stick for a while until you feel strong enough without it.”

He cocked his head to the side, still amused by something she had said. She went to her table and measured out his next dose of the milk of the poppy, tempted to give it to him now so he would stop looking at her so. She should have smuggled in some cards—that would have at least given him something to do. He was pretty much useless otherwise, with both his hands and arms injured. She should be glad she did not need to hand-feed him now.

He pushed himself up against the wall and grabbed the stick. She was shocked that he was taking her advice. Tomas hobbled past her and went out the door and into the corridor. She watched him go, using the wall for support as he made his way agonizingly slowly down the stairs. For one moment, she thought he might just keep going, leaving her alone. It scared her. He was in no fit state, but she herself said he could go. He could have fallen down the stairs! She stuck her head out to see if he was still there and blushed. He was relieving himself on the grassy verge at the end of the stairs.

Making her way quickly back to her table, she pretended to be sorting her herbs when he came hobbling in. She did not dare look up at him. He swept past her and then limped about the room, stopping now and then to catch his breath. Elena should be happy. He had actually listened to her, but she could see it caused him pain.

“Do not overdo walking this first time.”

He ignored her, of course, just like a man. “Have you always lived here in the village?” he asked as he stopped to rest against the wall before limping a few more steps around the room.

“Yes. My parents moved here after they were married. My father had been given a living by the alcalde of the town.”

“Alcalde?”

She searched for the French word. “Maire.”

The captain nodded. “And your brother, whose clothes I wear?”

“Juan. He was killed fighting the French. You wear a hero’s clothes. You should be honored.”

“Oh, I am. From one soldier to another, I am most grateful.”

She turned towards him. “Grateful he is dead? So you may have his clothes?”