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Amber swallowed a painful knot. Fear coiled in the pit of her stomach, but she raised her chin. “What I decide about what?”
“You can tell me everything I want to know about the Bruce and his army while enjoying a meal and an excellent wine. Or I can use some of these”—he motioned around the room—“to get the words out of you.”
Blood drained from Amber’s face. She needed to get out of here. “I don’t know anything.”
De Bourgh studied her with his sharp, penetrating eyes for a moment, then he gave a nod and picked up another chicken leg. “I suppose you’ve made your choice then.”
She could fight her way out. Owen was right, none of them knew kung fu or anything similar. If de Bourgh or the other guy approached her, her body would know what to do. There was no way she’d let them lay a finger on her.
De Bourgh waved with his hand, and the thin man’s face turned even more sad. The outside corners of his eyebrows sagged, and the ends above his nose met like the sides of a sharp roof.
He walked to Amber, and she bent her knees, assuming a fighting position. The executioner, which was the name she’d given him in her head, stretched his hand out to take her by the shoulder. She grabbed his wrist, moved behind him, and pulled his arm against her body while twisting it. The man grunted, and she dropped to her knees and used her entire body to push him down with her. He panted but remained silenced.
Amber looked at de Bourgh. He studied her with a surprised and amused expression, still chewing.
“Let me go, or I break his arm,” she said.
“What a clever trick,” de Bourgh said. “Well done.”
Why wasn’t he more concerned? Something sharp pressed against Amber’s stomach, and her skin chilled.
“I’m afraid I cannot allow that, milady,” the executioner grunted. “You need to let me go, or I will be forced to spill your entrails on the floor.”
Despite the pain, despite the impossible position, the man had managed to use his free hand to get his knife out. His long arms were probably what allowed him to reach her stomach. Amber had trained extensively but had only used kung fu once or twice to defend herself. This man was something else. Did the executioner not feel pain? Was he not afraid of it like a normal human being?
The sharp edge of his knife dug deeper into her skin.
“Let him go, Mistress Cambel.” De Bourgh tossed the chicken bone on the plate and wiped his hands. “He will kill you without hesitation. His arm is more precious to me than your life.”
Amber grunted and let the executioner’s arm go. He stood up slowly, watching her with pity in his eyes. She stood up as well, furious with him and with herself for not having another plan.
De Bourgh walked around the table to stand next to her. He was a short man, shorter than Amber, and next to the executioner, he looked like a ball next to a golf club.
“Where did you learn that?” de Bourgh asked.
“None of your business.”
“Hmm.” He slowly looked her over. “And where do your peculiar clothes come from? You’re dressed like a man in those breeches, but they’re almost like stockings. And this garment…” He reached out and took the collar of her leather jacket between his thumb and index finger. Amber stepped back. “Leather. Hmm. Never seen such rich finishing.”
He met her eyes. “You look very outlandish to me, mistress.”
“Exactly. I’m not from here. I don’t know anything about the Bruce. You’re wasting your time with me.”
“Not from here. I dare say. Your dark skin. Your clothes. Your strange speech. Where are you from, then?”
“Far away. You have no idea how far.”
“Elusive, again, are we? Let’s see if Jerold Baker here can persuade you to open up.”
The executioner grabbed Amber by the elbow, his long knife pointed right at her kidney. Amber muttered an oath, her legs as weak as cooked noodles. Should she lie? Tell him something about the Bruce, some sort of nonsense just to make him stop?
“I hope you realize that your elusiveness plays against you,” de Bourgh said. “I don’t trust you at all, I know you’re hiding something. Something big, something that might be of interest to me. Something that I will find out eventually.”
The executioner took her to the giant pole standing in the middle of the room. He placed Amber’s hand in a crude iron handcuff attached to the pole, and her insides trembled.
Screw this.
She jerked her wrist away before he could close the iron on her and punched him in the nose. Bone cracked, and blood spilled out of his nostrils. He groaned but still managed to bring the knife to her neck with one hand and grabbed her wrist in a viselike grip.
