They would doubtless kill her. She was too weak and too badly hurt to stop them. But she could at least put up a fight. Maybe, if she were really lucky, she'd manage to send one of them to hell a few minutes ahead of her.
Kit stepped through first, lantern held aloft Malcolm followed and hastily closed the door, then turned and found a shocking tableau. Kit had frozen in place, lantern still uplifted. Margo huddled in the corner, squinting against the lantern light She'd come to a defensive crouch ...
She was naked, covered with bruises. Dried blood showed dark on her thighs . .
"Oh, my God," Kit whispered.
Malcolm whipped off his cassock to wrap around her. Her eyes widened Then she burst into tears and hurled herself forward. Malcolm expected her to go for Kit She flew into his arms instead, staggering him off balance. She hugged him so tightly he had to fight for breath.
"Malcolm," she was whispering raggedly, "oh, God, Malcolm ..."
He wrapped the cassock gently around her shoulders. She dragged his head down and kissed him so desperately all he could do was dose his eyes and hold her. At length sanity returned.
"Your grandfather's here, too," he said quietly.
She turned and saw Kit. "Oh, God..."
Kit was staring at them, pale and silent in the lantern light Malcolm swallowed hard and met Kit's gaze. Their position was painfully clear. Margo clung to him, not to Kit, had kissed him as only men and women who have become lovers kiss.
Margo forestalled the explosion by throwing herself into Kit's arms. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry ."
"Shh ..." He held her as though she might break, but his look over her shoulder boded ill things to come in Malcolm's immediate future.
Malcolm met that cold gaze steadily. He was ashamed of the fact he hadn't told Kit sooner and he was ashamed of the fact he'd been drunk when he'd gone to bed with her. But he wasn't ashamed of the way he felt about Margo, and it wasn't his fault he hadn't known she was only seventeen at the time. At least, that's what he'd been telling himself for weeks. So he held Kit's gaze and said quietly, "We aren't out of danger yet."
He halfway expected Margo to wail, "What do you mean?" but she didn't. She let go of Kit and carefully pulled Malcolm's cassock more tightly around herself. Then she straightened against obvious pain and said quietly, "What do we have to do?"
Her voice shook a little, but childish petulance and every trace of impatience were gone. Terrified and battered and clearly only beginning to dare hope she might live through this, Margo met his gaze and faced the possibility she could yet die. Moreover, she did it with a quiet dignity he'd first glimpsed in London, standing on a street of kosher shops and rebuilt dreams.
Malcolm swallowed hard. When Margo looked at him now, an adult met his gaze. A real adult. Regardless of the number that represented her birthdate. In that moment, he fell in love all over again.
"Malcolm?"
He cleared his throat. "I'd say that's up to Kit. This is his rescue, I just sort of invited myself along."
She swung her gaze around. Kit continue staring at Malcolm for another long moment, then bit out, "Yes. And now I see why." Then he met Margo's gaze. "The gate doesn't reopen for five days. If it reopens. The string's disintegrating fairly rapidly. I'd be very surprised if it opens more than once or twice more before failing completely.
"Kynan Rhys Gower is still at large. The indigenous people in this region are being encouraged to capture and turn him in. Portuguese search parties are out hunting him. The traders are convinced you're a witch, one of them saw that damned balloon of yours seven weeks ago and now they have your `devilish' equipment as further damning proof.
"They'll expect us," he nodded to Malcolm, "to examine you for witchcraft. Given the circumstances, there's only one verdict possible. They'll expect us to proceed quickly with the execution. We're outnumbered twenty-five to two and they're heavily armed. More so than I'd feared."
"And there's a ninety percent chance," Malcolm added heavily, "that if we miss the next cycle of the gate, Kit will shadow himself before it reopens the next time. It's possible he'll shadow himself as it is."
Margo just covered her face with her hands. "You shouldn't have come," she whispered brokenly. "You shouldn't have risked it. I'm sorry. I'm not worth it, not even close to worth it "
Kit lifted a hand, hesitated, then touched her hair. She glanced up, eyes brimming in the lamp light. He managed a pained smile. "Did you actually transfer those damned diamonds to Goldie's worthless piece of property?"
The ghost of a smile flickered into being. "I sure did." Then her smile crumpled. "But Koot's dead and everything's gone to ruin. It's my fault! I screwed up the amount of fuel we needed. We ran out bucking the headwinds. We had to raft out and Koot contracted malaria of all things trying to get downriver, and we ran out of food, then that storm broke up our raft..." She drew a deep breath. "I'm not making excuses. I'm to blame for all of this. You were right. I'm not cut out to be a scout."
Kit traced an ugly bruise on her cheek. "Don't tell me you're giving up so soon?"
Her chin quivered. "I-I wanted to ask for a second chance, but I-I screwed up so bad, I-"
"Promise me you'll go back up time and study. Provided we get out of this mess alive," he added with a wry smile. "You get those college degrees, okay? We'll talk about it then."
She started crying again, silently, desperately. Malcolm wanted to hold her, but left that to Kit, who pulled her close and rocked her in his arms. Malcolm's throat thickened. He'd never seen such an expression on Kit's face. Eventually she sniffed and pulled back a step. "Okay. We'll talk about that when we get there," she said, sounding exactly like her grandfather. "But first, we have to get out of here. Any suggestions?"
"None whatsoever," Kit said cheerfully. "I generally make things up as I go along. Although for the sake of verisimilitude, I would suggest you scream, very loudly and most convincingly, right about now."
Margo didn't even hesitate. She screamed, a piercing sound of agony that raised fine hairs on the back of Malcolm's neck. Then she whimpered loudly enough to be heard through the closed door. They waited for a moment, then Kit signaled to her again. She let out another gawdawful cry and started sobbing.
Kit said quietly, "I'm sorry, but Malcolm has to keep this." He took Malcolm's cassock and handed it back. Then he stepped to the door and opened it.
"Governor Salazar, whether this girl is witch or not, I have still not decided in my heart," Kit said. "But the girl has been badly brutalized." Reproach darkened his voice. "God does not approve of such violence against the weaker sex. Worse, you have left her naked and starving. We may chastise the body for the sake of the soul, but we are still Christian men. Bring the poor child a blanket, clothing, something hot to eat. Let her pray and sleep. Tomorrow we will examine her further."
He lifted his hand in a Latin benediction, then motioned to Malcolm. Margo bit her lips as he turned to leave. He said with his eyes, Hold on, kid. Just hold on.. Then the traders brought a coarse shirt, a blanket, and a mug of soup. Kit saw to it that she was clothed and wrapped in the blanket, watched her finish the soup,, then consented to lock her in again for the night.
Then-and only then--did he and Malcolm finish the "confessions" they had begun. Neither of them was in any mood for it, but the charade had to be maintained at all costs. The confessions proved astonishingly petty, yet gave great insight into the factions which split the isolated men of Lourenco Marques.
"The tradesmen," Sergeant Joao Braz complained bitterly, "act like they are in Lisbon, not this forsaken wilderness! The miller demands his twentieth part for grinding flour. What will he spend it on? And the husbands are lazy! All they do is stand around and watch their chickens scratch in the dirt while we guard their miserable lives ... ."