The Captive (26 page)

“You should know of my plans,” he said, picking up the candle from the mantel. “I might have to go up to Town in the next weeks, though not for any great length of time. If I do go, I’ll ask Marcus to bide here temporarily.”

She nodded, because he was right: the chances of meadow tea poisoning a large man nigh to death were miniscule, and Marcus was a battle-hardened officer, the same as Christian.

“Lucy will be glad of a visitor,” she said, “and I haven’t seen Marcus myself since his last leave.”

Christian held the candle low, so his features were cast in flickering shadow. “You know I care for you, Gillian.”

He made no move to approach her, to kiss her good night, to take her in his arms. Gilly sat at her vanity and pulled pins from her hair, when she wanted to pitch herself against him and cling to him with everything in her.

“And I care for you.” She could say it now, now when his proposal was no longer under discussion.

He left, and Gilly was crying even as she fastened the lock on the door latch. She did as he’d suggested and took herself to bed, cuddling up to the pillow on the side of the bed he’d vacated.

***

Christian saw his guest to bed late, because they’d started comparing notes and reminiscing about various battles and generals they’d both served under. Eventually, he realized that St. Just had as much trouble sleeping as the next veteran of the Peninsula.

Then too, Christian was procrastinating. He had no intention of sleeping alone, not tonight of all nights, not with Gilly’s disclosures so fresh in his mind and her behavior so dauntingly distant.

But he thought back to his first weeks and months after leaving French hands. He’d been barely human, and he’d suffered no more than she. Physically, Girard’s tortures hadn’t been the worst humanity had devised, nor had they been applied all that frequently.

The worst brutality had been mental, the uncertainty from day to day regarding his fate, the tantalizing hints of hope and decent treatment followed by days of neglect or worse. Then too, the sense of having been so easily forgotten by his fellows had demoralized him. But what was that compared to Gilly’s situation, which her own parents had fashioned for her and the law declared her legally bound fate?

Having been only recently freed from her marriage, still she’d bestirred herself to bring Lucy’s situation to Christian’s attention, to demand that he be responsible toward his daughter.

He checked on Lucy and found her sleeping peacefully, two growing puppies snuggled in beside her, then repaired to his own room where he peeled out of his clothes, washed away the dust of the day, and turned down the bed. Wearing only a dressing gown, he crossed the hallway, unlocked Gilly’s door the same as he had every night, and lifted her into his arms.

“Christian?”

“Of course it’s Christian. If St. Just has taken to poaching, I’ll meet him over the weapon of his choice.”

She blinked up at him then closed her eyes. “My indisposition is yet upon me, and you will not even jest about wreaking violence on a fellow soldier.”

Had she been fully awake, she’d have kept more of that chilly distance. Half-asleep, she had some trust in him, and that was encouraging—also sweet.

“I sleep better when I’m certain you’re safe.”

That was the extent of their discussion, and he was grateful for the silence. Better that she get her rest than that they waste their breath arguing. In sleep, she curled up against him easily and rubbed her cheek against his chest.

In sleep, she let him hold her and laced her fingers through his. She let him comfort her when the nightmares came.

He prayed it was only a matter of time before she allowed him to face her waking dragons with her as well.

***

“Of course I’ll stay an extra day,” St. Just said, keeping his voice down, though he and Christian stood outside the breakfast parlor. “Is it wise to abandon your lady now, given recent developments?”

“I’m not abandoning her,” Christian said. “I’m following her example.”

“Which would be?”

“Let’s eat while we talk. We’ll have more privacy.”

Christian waved the footmen off, served himself and his guest, and took his place at the head of the table.

“You were off your feed when first we met,” St. Just said. “Matters seem to have righted themselves.”

Christian’s plate bore thick slabs of fragrant, crispy bacon, a mountain of eggs, and two pieces of toast lacking crusts.

“I am on the mend largely thanks to the countess.” Who was still abed in the ducal chamber, because Christian hadn’t had the heart to return her to her own rooms in the cold, gray predawn light. “When I was in such bad shape, her approach was to insist on a normal routine. She made me sleep at night and face the days, made me deal with my daughter, made me eat what I could. She brought me back to life.”

“You brought yourself back to life,” St. Just said, tucking into his eggs. “These are good. You don’t spare the cream.”

“Cook personally prepares anything coming to the table now. Not only are we safer, we eat like royalty. You’ll want butter on that toast.” Christian slid the butter dish over to his guest, because whatever St. Just did not put on his toast, Christian would put on his.

The prospect of dealing with Girard hummed through Christian with a violent joy, sharpened his every sense, and gave the day an edge of anticipation. And yet, a part of him also fretted over Gilly and wished he’d been free to tarry with her above stairs.

“Have you made any progress determining who the countess’s malefactor could be?”

“In my nightmares, I imagine the French are behind this danger to Gilly. Girard could describe the land around here as if he’d walked it himself.” Though preying upon a noncombatant departed from the curious code of honor Girard had held himself to throughout Christian’s captivity.

St. Just used exactly half the butter on his toast then nudged the remainder closer to Christian’s elbow. “Would Girard have failed on three consecutive attempts?”

The question inspired a pause. Christian’s knife, holding a fat dollop of butter, poised over his toast.

“He would not, though Anduvoir might. Do we know where Anduvoir is?”

“I can find out.” St. Just’s tone suggested Anduvoir had best be halfway to Russia.

“The theory that Girard is harassing me through Gilly has another problem,” Christian said, resenting the demands of logic when the pleasure of violence called loudly.

St. Just made a circle with his fork while he chewed a mouthful of ham.

“Girard was canny. One wants to attribute to the enemy every fault ever exhibited by humankind—stupidity, vulgarity, mendacity—and yet, he was none of those things. We are at long last at peace, and Girard would have no motive for antagonizing me now, particularly if, as you say, he’s turned up with an English barony around his neck.”

St. Just poured himself more tea and topped off Christian’s cup, as if they’d been in the officers’ mess sharing their daily ration of beef, potatoes, and gossip.

“Given how many English peers Girard has mistreated, that barony will likely have the same result as a target on his back,” St. Just observed. “Girard might live longer if he found his way to Cathay, but not by much.”

Abruptly, Christian’s hearty, satisfying English breakfast lost its appeal. St. Just implied somebody would call Girard out before Christian had the chance. He pushed a forkful of eggs around on his plate, eggs that would have made him weep had he been served them in France.

“I have reason enough to wish Girard biding in hell, but with respect to Gilly’s troubles, the kitchen maid we suspect of poisoning the tea hailed from over near Greendale and had worked at the local posting inn there. Gilly has suggested the woman was one of Greendale’s castoffs. He was not at all faithful to his vows, and he let Gilly know it.”

St. Just took a tactful sip of his tea. “So you’re off to pay your condolences to Greendale’s heir?”

“My heir too,” Christian said. “At least for a time. Easterbrook has his hands full, what with the condition Greendale was left in.”

“The manse is falling down about his ears?”

“The house itself is in fine shape, but every outbuilding and tenant farm is in precarious condition. Gilly was willing to stay with Lucy and me initially because the Greendale dower house is in such poor repair.”

“Will Easterbr—Greendale set it to rights?”

“I doubt it, not for some time. And I’ll lock the woman in a tower before I let her leave my protection.”

“Make a captive of her, will you?” St. Just reached for his tea as Christian’s balled-up serviette flew across the table at him.

“Not subtle, St. Just.”

“Subtlety has never been my strong suit. Too many years soldiering. Too many younger siblings. Too many imbroglios with dear Papa, His Grace, the Duke of Stubbornness, and his bride, the Duchess of Now See Here, Young Man. How do you get the butter so light?”

“It’s a mystery. Cook is fifteen stone if she’s an ounce, but she has the best hand with the cream. Then too, she knows we’ve your company again. She’s likely smitten with you or your appetites.”

“Get you to your horse, Mercia, before I’m forced to improve your manners with a round of fisticuffs.”

“You aren’t riding out with him?” Gilly stood in the doorway, looking freshly scrubbed and braided, also tired. She’d had a restless night, seeming to need Christian’s arms around her to sleep at all.

“Good morning, Countess.” St. Just was on his feet before she’d taken a step.

“My lady.” Christian rose to hold her customary chair at his left. “Good morning. I’m off to pay a call, and St. Just has agreed to bear you company for the day.”

She visually assessed the colonel, not with any warmth. “Don’t feel you must stay with me. I can make do with George and John.”

Oh, delightful. They would start the day quarreling. Though her pugnacity was, in its way, reassuring—probably to them both.

“Would you like your usual fare, Countess?” Christian stood by the sideboard, an empty plate in his hand.

“Please, and I’d like to know where you’re off to if Colonel St. Just must be left with my care.”

“To Greendale. Marcus has been in residence for several weeks, we’ve traded the requisite correspondence, it’s time to pay a call, and St. Just’s presence means you need not come with me—unless you’d like to? We can have the coach brought around for you.”

He kept his tone casual and busied himself preparing her plate, but he wanted her to choose his company over another day at Severn, particularly a day in St. Just’s handsome and charming company.

Which was exactly how a man felt when he was badly, sorely, and completely smitten. Gilly would no more want to spend time at Greendale than Christian would enjoy a return visit to the Château.

“I’ll bide here,” she said, tucking her serviette on her lap. “Lucy will pine if we both leave, and Greendale has no positive associations for me. Colonel, what shall we find to do with ourselves?”

She ignored Christian as politely as company would allow, and he let her. Maybe she was peeved because he was leaving for the day, but the call really should not be put off when St. Just’s presence made leaving the property easier.

Maybe Gilly was cranky from a restless night or from being taken from her own bed when she had halfway asked to have a night to herself. Maybe she resented having to entertain company.

And maybe she would simply take her sweet time coming to terms with the fact that everybody needs an orange peeled for them, from time to time.

***

Gilly dabbed her toast with jam—the table boasted no butter—and ignored two large, worried men who likely did not know what to do with a grenade of female emotions lobbed into their midst, her fuse lit and burning down.

Tossing and turning in Christian’s arms—always in his arms—Gilly had come to the mortifying conclusion that Christian had been right: marriage to Greendale had left her ashamed of herself. Exactly as Christian had said—had accused—she blamed herself for her marriage and for not finding a way out of it.

Greendale had been depraved but not brilliant. Gilly could have absconded with the silver from her trousseau, taken a coach for Scotland, and made some sort of living with her needle.

She might have fought back, revealed her scars to Polite Society, arranged a visit to Helene but instead taken ship for South America. By the hour, she had listed the plans and schemes she might have, should have, and
did
not
attempt.

She also blamed herself for revealing the whole business to Christian, who had put all the violence he’d suffered behind him and focused on building a life around the daughter he loved and his ducal responsibilities.

And Gilly blamed herself for being rude over breakfast to the man she loved, though as awkward as things had grown between them, she didn’t like the idea of him traveling to Greendale without her.

She couldn’t say why the idea rankled, but it did.

And thus, she was on the drive after breakfast, ready to bid Christian farewell on more cordial terms than she’d shown him earlier.

“Good of you to see me off.” Christian settled on the lady’s mounting block next to where Gilly stood. “You were less than charming over breakfast, except to St. Just.”

“I am yet tired,” she said, though those words weren’t what she wanted to convey to him.

He stood and took the step necessary to close the distance between them.

“It won’t work.” He put a hand on each of her shoulders and brought her against him. “Paw and snort all you like, Gilly. Dodge, duck, and dawdle, but your temper won’t chase me off. I’m tending to a duty, but I’m also giving you some peace and quiet.”

She put her arms around his waist and let herself have the comfort of his embrace for a moment. “Don’t let Easterbrook make you smoke any of his smelly cigars.”

And that had nothing to do with anything either.

“Gilly, the only sleep you found was when I held you. I want to always be there to hold you.”

She held on to him, trying to believe what he was telling her. Christian’s mistreatment by the French made him only more dear to her. Her mind trusted that Greendale’s abuse did not sully her in Christian’s eyes, did not make her less worthy of Christian’s regard.