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lungs straining for breath. Pain seared the skin around his neck, the garrote biting deepinto his flesh. Kicking and twisting, he fought to be free, fought for the use of his arms and hands as black spots danced in his head. Helpless, he waited for death.
    In the next instant, the garrote was gone, air rushing into his aching lungs. He gagged and coughed, his body convulsed in agony as warm, wet droplets splashed onto his pantaloon legs, spreading over the cloth in round scarlet dots. Even with his impaired vision, he knew they were blood—his blood. Good Christ, had the bastard used a wire?
    A fist hit him while he was still forming his next thought, while he was still gasping for breath. “Now you will talk!”
    “Oh, but he won’t,” declared a smooth voice as someone new entered the barn.
    Straw crackled beneath even footfalls, Cade sensing rather than seeing the man who had spoken.
    “You’re only wasting your time,” the man continued in mellifluent French. “He won’t talk like this and you’ll only end up killing him. What good will that do?”
    “Monsieur Le Renard,” breathed the chief interrogator in respectful tones. “We did not know to expect you tonight.”
    “It is good I came, seeing how badly you are botching this matter.”
    “We are making progress. He will break soon.”
    “Doubtful. Men like Byron don’t break easily. They require other means of persuasion.” Stepping close, the stranger bent down so that his lips were next to Cade’s ears. “Do you not, Byron?” he mocked in perfect, unaccented English. So perfect, in fact, the voice could have been one he might hear in a Society drawing room in London. And how did this “Le Renard” know hisname? His real name, and not the alias he had been using while spying for Wellesley here in Portugal?
    A shiver ran down his spine.
    “Bring in my little surprise,” Le Renard said, switching back to French.
    A shuffling sound filled the space, followed by hysterical sobbing. The crack of a slap reverberated on the air and a woman’s cry of pain just after.
    Hard fingers grabbed hold of Cade’s hair and jerked up his head. “Look who I’ve brought to see you. Your little friend from the village. Or is she more than a friend? Did I not hear some mention of wedding bells?”
    No! Forcing his eyes to focus, Cade stared across at the girl being held by another pair of soldiers. Calida! Her face was bruised, her straight dark hair hanging in tangles around her shoulders, the bodice of her gown torn, with one sleeve all but ripped away. Their gazes met, her beautiful brown eyes swimming with tears that streamed over her cheeks.
    “Let her go!” Cade shouted—or tried to shout, his abused voice coming out as nothing more than a raw whisper.
    “Oh, I think not. Go on, my dear,” Le Renard coaxed, in Portuguese this time. “Remember what we discussed?”
    “Madre de Dios,” she cried. “What have they done to you? Cade, they killed Mama and Papa! They came to the house and took us all! He s-said if you t-tell them…what they want to k-know…th-they’ll stop. Please make them stop.”
    “Yes, Lord Cade,” Le Renard said, in flowing, aristocratic English. “Tell us, and, of course, I will let you go.”
    But Cade knew he was lying. Once he gave up his secrets, he was as good as dead. And Calida, too. There had to be a way to save her, though, something he could do.
    “All right. I…I might have a name,” Cade panted, working his mind around a likely fabrication. “Let her go and I’ll give it to you.”
    “I think not. The name first.”
    Cade hesitated, but could see no means of delaying. “Rodriguez. Pablo Rodriguez.”
    A silence followed. “Tsk tsk. I’m disappointed in you. As you well know, that name was compromised months ago.” Le Renard sighed. “I can see this is going to take a while. In the meantime, my men could do with some sport. Boys, who wants to be first?”
    Cade strained against his bonds. “Don’t!