If the damned hammering in his temples ceased, he could think. The pressure in his head, the constriction of his body, the rough, measured sway—he lay draped like a bag of grain across the back of a horse. Why? D’Ambrosie…surprised us… Evie? Where? Bile burned at the back of his throat. Safe. D’Ambrosie…not harm her… The men? He struggled against the bindings. No. Evie said…Henry’s guard. Safe for now. His horse stumbled, pitched him forward, to be brought up short by the tight ropes. A deep blackness descended. Next time awareness came, the pounding in his head had dulled. At least he could think. He still lay over a moving saddle. The low murmur of voices rose over the jangle of harness, the creak of leather. No smell moved past the pressure in his nose from lying head-down. He eased open an eye; the lid wouldn’t lift completely. The other eyelid refused to budge. Tensing stomach muscles, he eased a breath as unobtrusively as possible. No need to alert everyone he’d awakened.
