“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 fa?ade; 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, thank 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 have to 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.
“Nothing,” Whit said.
“Me too.”
We both looked at the barrels and then silently looked through them, too.
We came up empty.
The magnitude of our situation hit me full in the face and my knees gave out. Whit let out a sharp sound and rushed toward me, dropping onto the ground and pulling me into his lap. I didn’t know I was crying until he wiped at the tears dripping down to my chin.
“Easy, Inez,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”
I leaned against him and he wrapped his arms around me. I breathed in his scent, mingled with sweat and blood, and it felt so real to me. He was full of strength and vitality and life and in a matter of hours, all that energy would be taken from him. I couldn’t stand it.
“I think we’re doomed,” I murmured against his chest. “Have you come to the same conclusion?”
His arms tightened around me.
Minutes passed, the only noise in the tomb coming from our quiet breaths mingling together in the dark.
“You asked me once why I was dishonorably discharged.”
I lifted my head. “And you’re finally going to tell me now that we’re going to die.”
“Sweetheart, do you want to hear this or not?”
I laid my head back down, the endearment working like a balm. Whit removed my hairpin and plucked my hat off my head. He cast it aside.
“I was stationed at Khartoum,” he began. “Under General Charles George Gordon. Do you know who that is?”
I shook my head. “Is that who the gun belongs to?”
Whit nodded. “The bastards stole it from me.” His fingers crept up and he smoothed my curls away from my face. “He had an impossible task,” he continued. “The Mahdis were fast approaching, intending to take control over the city, but Gordon held his ground. Britain ordered him to evacuate, but he wouldn’t, and instead he sent women, children, and the sick up into Egypt to escape from the attacks on Khartoum. All told, over two thousand five hundred people were removed from the city and into safety. Over time, the surrounding British-occupied cities surrendered to the Mahdis, and Khartoum was left isolated and vulnerable.”
I lifted my head and pulled away far enough so I could stare at Whit’s face as he recounted his tale.
“Gordon continued to hold the city, refusing to leave. He forced me to meet the rescue mission he knew was coming, and to help guide them back to the city. I went kicking and screaming, and eventually met up with the British officers attempting to navigate the Nile.” His mouth twisted into distaste. “The head of the relief force, Wolesley, decided to hire Canadians instead of Egyptians to pilot the river, and wasted months waiting for them to arrive all the way from North America.”
He clenched his fists against my thigh.
I gently prodded, not wanting him to lock up. “What happened then, Whit?”
“I told them I would go up ahead on my own,” Whit said softly. “But Wolesley refused. Forbade me from coming to General Gordon’s defense. So, I disobeyed the Crown, and snuck away from camp. Made the trek up the Nile on my own. Traveled through where the fighting had left bones. Humans, horses, camels. All sizes. What a waste of life.” His voice dropped to an anguished whisper. “I went as fast as I could, but in the end it didn’t matter. I arrived two days too late. The Mahdis beheaded General Gordon on the palace steps. A week later, I was dishonorably discharged for desertion.”
He lifted his head, his blue eyes shining with an unholy light. “I would have made the same decision. I only wish I would have done it earlier. Maybe I could have helped him, saved him.”
For a year, he’d been carrying the guilt of something that wasn’t his. It had burdened him when it wasn’t his to own. I understood why he hid behind a mask that tried to convince everyone that he didn’t care about the world or what happened to it. I wanted to take off the weight as if it were a tangible thing, just so he could be free to let himself feel again. “He would have stayed behind, regardless of if you were there, Whit.”
“I wasn’t there when he needed me.”
“You went to get help,” I said. “He knew you would have done anything to help him. You did everything you could—to your own detriment.” I caressed the hollow of his throat. I knew what it cost him, to reveal something that he felt tremendous shame about. Something he would have carried alone. “I think you’re more decent than you think. Practically a hero.”
“The military judge didn’t think so.”
“I don’t care.” I softened my voice. “Thank you for telling me.”
“Well, I wouldn’t have, if it weren’t near certain that we’re doomed.”