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I slumped next to his knees, resting my arm on top of his thigh. He grunted in response. “They’ve sealed the entrance.”
“I heard,” he muttered. “Can you come closer?”
“Why?”
“I need to know what they’ve done to you.”
Whit’s voice was lethal, and the hair on the back of my neck stood on end. I leaned forward and he squinted up at me. His bloodshot gaze ran over every curve of my face, resting on my sore cheek. Rage radiated from him in widening ripples, charging the air around us.
He let out a foul curse.
The lone candle on one of the crates flickered ominously, casting moving shadows against the rock. If we could somehow cut free from the ropes, we might be able to find something practical to use inside one of the boxes or barrels. The walls seemed to press closer. A tight fist around my lungs. I knew we were in danger of losing light and air, but I didn’t know how much time that left us. The image of a dwindling hourglass scored itself in my mind. Every time I blinked, the level of sand lowered.
“Would one of my hat pins be useful to pierce through the rope?”
He shook his head and slowly sat up, groaning. “I don’t think so. What else do you have hidden in your hair?”
“Nothing else, I’m afraid.”
Whit glanced down at his shoes. “I wish they hadn’t found my blade.”
“What are we going to do, Whit?” I asked softly. “How will we get out of this?”
“I might be able to wiggle out of the rope,” he said. “I was awake when they tied the knot, and I kept my elbows apart when they secured it.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“There’s a margin of slack,” he explained, the muscles in his arms rippling as he worked on his bindings. “If I stretch and pull at the rope by moving my wrists, I can release some of the tension.”
“That’s a neat trick. Where did you learn it?”
A shadow of grief crossed his face, as if he’d walked under a rain cloud. “A friend taught me in case I were ever abducted.”
“Have you been?”
A lock of hair fell over his forehead. I wanted to smooth it back. “Until now, no,” he said.
“What happened to your friend?”
Whit paused for a hairsbreadth before continuing. “He died.”
I wanted to press him more but his expression shuttered, and instinct told me to hold back. He fell silent as he continued to work on the rope, muttering one foul word after another. He wore none of his charming facade; instead I stared at someone who was no stranger to surviving. A seasoned fighter with none of the polish in a ballroom. We were far from the rules of society, from expectations and duty. This was the Whit I knew had existed all along, the one he had hidden because it showed him at his most vulnerable. The youngest son with a failed military career.
“Olivera,” Whit whispered. “I think I’ve done it, by God.”
He stood, the rope unraveling, and then he hunched down to untie my knots. I was dizzy with relief. “Gracias.”
“Don’t thank me just yet,” he said, helping me to my feet. “We still haveto find a way out of here.” He looked down at the gash on his arm, staining his linen shirt. “But first, if you’ll sacrifice your petticoat…”
I leaned down and ripped a long stretch of fabric. Whit took it from me and in one fluid movement, he used his teeth and left hand to wrap it around his wound, securing it into a makeshift bandage. He’d done it in less than a minute, as if he’d taken care of scrapes and knife stabbings a thousand times.
Whit clutched at his side as he walked to the entrance. I followed after him, knowing there was no way on Earth that we’d manage to roll the stone away with only our combined efforts. He must have come up with the same conclusion because he angrily turned away.
“Bastards,” he snarled.
“Let’s look through the crates,” I suggested.
Whit took one stack and I took another. The first lid I lifted showed nothing inside. My throat tightened as I moved to the second and then the third with the same results.
