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“I don’t know what waterboarding is,” Caroline said.
“It’s when you cover someone’s mouth with a cloth then pour water on them to make them think they’re going to drown,” Joe said.
“That is so wrong.” Caroline was outraged. “There will be no waterboarding on my bed. Are we clear?”
There was a pathetic chorus of “yes, Caroline.”
“And while we’re at it.” Caroline folded her arms and stared them all down. “No making him bleed, either. I might have to throw that mattress out, but it doesn’t mean I want the visual of a bloody man on my bed stuck in my head.”
“Great. Any more orders, or is that it?” Megan said. “It doesn’t exactly leave us much to work with. Do you expect us to tickle the information out of him?”
“I guess we’re back to you singing to him,” Heather said as she threw a basin of water over the man’s face.
His eyes jerked open. His muscles went tense and he fought his restraints. The Knit Or Die women gave each other congratulatory smiles when the restraints held.
Megan marched towards the man and stared down at him. He really was kind of cute with his golden skin and chocolate eyes. Pity he was the enemy. “You are going to tell us everything we want to know. You’re going to tell us who you are, what you want and how many of you there are. If you don’t, we will hurt you.” She nodded towards the women.
As one, they all did what they could to appear meaner. The guy’s eyebrows shot up high on his head.
“I’m taking off the gag. Don’t scream or shout for help.”
She untied the knot at the back of his head and peeled off the scarf and towel. He coughed when he was free of it.
“Right.” Megan sat on the bed beside him. “Who are you?”
“Je ne parle pas l’anglais.” His voice was rugged, his accent sexy. Neither of which impressed Megan. She’d expected to deal with English. Now she was stumped.
“I love that accent!” Jena squealed. “It’s so sexy. Make him talk more.”
Megan cocked her eyebrow at the American. “Well, duh, Jena. That’s the whole point of this.”
“Why the heck are we being invaded by the French?” Margaret demanded. “Aren’t we friends with the French? We sent them Mary, Queen of Scots when she needed a place to stay, for goodness’ sake. Why would they attack us?”
“Je ne parle pas l’anglais,” the guy said again.
“Anybody here speak French?” Megan asked.
There was silence.
“This is exactly why Britain is going downhill. People are too arrogant to learn the language of their neighbours,” Megan said.
“We could use Google Translate,” Jena said.
Megan pointed to the candles. “No power, remember?”
“Oh, yeah,” Jena said.
“Wait.” Caroline shot to her feet. “I think I have a phrasebook from when we took a trip to Paris.” She looked at Joe. “It’s in the office. Can you get it?”
Joe shook his head. “Yes. I’ll go downstairs, where it’s probably teeming with mercenaries, to fetch a phrasebook so you lot can interrogate our captive with questions like ‘when is the train to Paris?’ and ‘how much for a room for the night?’”
Caroline stared at him. “Does that mean you’re not going?”
“Yes. It means I’m not going.”
“Mum, didn’t you study French in school?” Megan said.
“That was about a million years ago, and we learned really helpful phrases, like: Il y a un singe dans l’arbre.”
