“Can you hold your breath? Are you trained?”
She knew what he meant and she nodded.
“How long?” He demanded tersely.
“Twenty minutes if I’m careful.” She didn’t lie, and wanted to see if he was shocked. As a child she’d been forced to stay under longer and longer periods of time. She’d thought everyone did it, until once, at the dinner table, when she was bragging to her brothers and they were making fun of her for lying, she saw her mother’s mouth tighten with disapproval and she’d never mentioned it again-to anyone.
“You’re going under with me.”
It wasn’t a question, and he was already exerting pressure on her, taking her into the water, not making a sound as they slowly submerged, as if he took it for granted that anyone could stay under that long without breathing equipment. The knife never wavered and neither did the arm locked around her neck. He gave her plenty of time to take a breath, and she did so, drawing air into her lungs as they crouched down in a small section of the stream covered with reeds.
Briony dug her fingers into his arm, holding on, trying to conquer fear. She felt sometimes that she’d spent most of her life trying to hide that she was frightened. She had always been afraid, and after a while, it was simply a way of life. She was afraid of everything, and sometimes it disgusted her that she could never quite overcome those shadows dwelling so deep inside of her. She forced herself to be still, not wanting her captor to be aware of how very frightened of him she really was.
Part of her was excited, wondering, in spite of the danger, whether he could do the things she could do. And if he could-what did that mean?
Jack could feel the small tremor continually running through the body of the young woman he held so tight against him. She was small, hardly more than a girl, but she felt like a woman-had smelled like a woman, all soft curves and fresh scent. She was terrified, but hiding it well and that made no sense if she were a GhostWalker. She would be highly skilled in martial arts, in hand-to-hand combat, in weapons of every kind. She should have complete confidence in her abilities. She was without a doubt physically enhanced and, he suspected, psychically as well. She breathed under water the way they’d all been taught, one small release of air at a time.
Jack found himself all too aware of the woman in his arms. He had been from the moment he touched her. Every single detail seemed imprinted in his mind. On his body. The shape and texture of her. The brush of her silky hair against his face when he’d first locked his arm around her throat. The pads of her fingers pressing deep into his arm as they crouched together beneath the water. Nothing like that had ever happened to him before. It never mattered whether his opposition was a man or a woman; it was a job. He did whatever it took to complete the job. She was no object; she was a woman. He couldn’t get the feel or scent of her out of his mind, even now, under water, as if somehow her body had melted into his skin and imprinted on his bones.
The soldiers spent time beneath the tree, talking in whispers. Jack knew they were hunting him. A minute. Two. Three turned into five. Five into ten. The soldiers remained, crouching by the stream, drawing a map in the damp earth. Fifteen minutes went by. Jack slowed his breath even more.
The woman’s fingers dug deeper into his arm. The tension went up noticeably, and he felt her rising terror of drowning, but remarkably, she held still. The minutes continued and he expected panic, was prepared for it, but she held her ground, forcing the slow release of air to allow her to stay beneath the water. She’d been trained, all right, but she was losing air and needed to surface. Her terror was in his mind-swamping him-tasting bitter in his mouth.
Jack tried to ignore her fears, but the empathy between them was too strong and gave him no choice. He caught her head in his hand and turned her face to his, leaning forward until his lips feathered over hers. It was a mistake. He felt that feather light touch all the way through his body, a wild slam of his heart, a tightening of his groin, something deeper shifting and moving inside of him. He breathed into her mouth, so that he was literally the air she breathed, so that she took him deep into her body where he belonged.
Where the hell had that thought come from? He swore he not only felt an electric current sizzling through his veins, he felt possessive-and he was a man who never had strong sexual or emotional reactions in a relationship with a woman-he never allowed it. He avoided attachments, yet every cell in his body-in his brain-urged him to pull her closer, to take possession of her. He stared directly into her eyes, enormous with fear but determined not to give them away. How could anyone have so much fear and yet remain so utterly still, so aware of the danger surrounding her? It took courage and discipline to be able to breathe under water when self-preservation urged you to surface.
He curled his arm around her waist, anchoring her, trying to give her some reassurance that they wouldn’t drown or be attacked. It’s all right, baby. He whispered the words in his mind, trying to think of something to do that would indicate he wouldn’t force her to stay under if they ran out of air. He could fight if he had to, although he was in bad shape and he didn’t want to risk gunfire. The sound would carry in the night. He didn’t want to bring the general’s army down on them. I’m not going to let you die here. What did men say to women to ease their fears? Hell, he didn’t know. He was way out of his field of expertise.
Jack became aware of her utter stillness. Her eyes had widened and she stared at him as if he’d grown two heads. There was no faking the shock on her face. Whatever this woman was, she was not a member of the psychic teams he’d trained with. She heard him. She was every bit as strong a telepath as he was. You can hear me. He made it a statement.
One of the soldiers waded into the stream, turning Jack’s attention back to the danger. The situation was critical. Breathing for both of them, he was running out of air, and the soldier was almost on top of the woman. Don’t move. He put as much force into his voice as he could, the command absolute. This time he framed her face with his hands and leaned down to take her mouth, pushing the air into her lungs. You understand?
Damn. He couldn’t control his accelerated heartbeat or the strange flutter in his belly-but it had nothing to do with fear of the soldiers and everything to do with the peculiar woman. She nodded slightly.
Keep your eyes closed until I come back for you.
Her fear nearly took her into panic, he could see it in her eyes, but her mouth firmed and she nodded again, the long lashes coming down, eyes squeezing closed tight. Jack didn’t wait, couldn’t wait. The second soldier was in the water and the first was about to trip over the woman’s leg. He caught both ankles and yanked hard, dragging the man under, burying the knife in his throat, and rising almost at the second soldier’s feet, cutting thighs, belly, jugular, and throat so that he too dropped away, leaving Jack to face the third man. He reversed the knife and threw hard, burying the blade to the hilt in the rebel’s throat.
It took only seconds to retrieve his knife and wipe the blade clean. He left the soldiers’ weapons exactly where they fell and went back for the woman. They couldn’t leave anything for the general’s tracker’s to find.
Come up but keep your eyes closed. I’m getting you out of here. What the hell is your name? I’m Jack.
There was a brief hesitation, but she was desperate for air. She rose, visibly shaking. Jack caught her around the waist, one hand covering her eyes. “Let’s go, but step light, we don’t want any evidence of you being here.”
“My scarf,” she said, “I dropped it. And my name’s Briony Jenkins.”
He knew that name. And he knew of the Flying Five-and this was more of a coincidence than he could swallow. He looked around quickly. The scarf was floating a short distance from them. She’d taken it under water with them, but released it when he brought her up. The fact that she remembered it under the traumatic conditions increased his growing respect for her. Keep your eyes closed. He let go of her and turned to retrieve the scarf.
Briony took off running. All she had to do was get into heavier brush and she could disappear. The soldiers were definitely hunting her captor, and she wasn’t going to lead them-or him-back to her brothers. She heard her heart pounding frantically and the sound of her breath rushing out of her lungs. Her eyes remained on her goal; she didn’t dare turn to see if he was behind her. Every step counted.
He struck from behind, a hard tackle that knocked her to the ground, facedown, trapping her arms before she had a chance to get them out from under her. The wind exploded out of her, and his knee drove hard into the small of her back, one hand fisted tightly in her hair and the other pressing the tip of his knife against her jugular. “Don’t you f**king move,” he hissed. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”
“Do it then,” she spat back, her mouth full of dirt and leaves. “I’m not leading you back to my family so get over it.”
“You think this is some kind of game?”
“I don’t care if it is.” She didn’t bother to try to control the violent trembling. What the hell did she care if he knew she was afraid? Let him kill her. He wasn’t going to get what he wanted. And why did his presence disturb her so much?