The Captive (27 page)

Her heart was more wary.

“I didn’t want you to know.” An orphan’s cry for her mama might have been more forlorn, barely. “I didn’t want you to know I’d let somebody treat me like that. A shame is less wounding if it’s private.”

He was silent, simply holding her, and Gilly took it as a measure of her upset that she let him embrace her more or less in public. A quick hug between cousins-by-marriage might be excused, but not this.

“I cannot know the experiences you’ve survived, Gilly, except what you tell me of them.” His hand stroked across her back, as if he would remind her of what he’d seen and that her scars did not frighten him. “I will tell you what somebody told me: I respect you all the more for what you’ve confided, both because of what you survived and because you don’t pretend it never happened. The shame wounds you, but it belongs entirely to Greendale.”

If Christian did not get on his horse soon, she’d be telling him every last, awful detail. “I wanted it all to die with him.”

“The mistreatment died with him, but you, my love, did not, for which I will ever give thanks. You’ll be decent to St. Just?”

“I’ll flirt my eyebrows off with him.”

This earned her a chuckle. “He’s a cavalry officer. He won’t scare easily.”

Christian kissed her forehead, and Gilly couldn’t help holding him tighter.

“I’ll stay if you ask me to,” he said softly, right near her ear, “but I owe Marcus a show of support.”

“Go then.” She stepped back quickly, before she started begging. “Give him my regards, and tell him…”

She never wanted to see Marcus Easterbrook again, never wanted to see Greendale again.

And never wanted to say another good-bye to Christian Severn.

Gilly made a decision. She made her decision based on the way Chessie nuzzled at Christian’s pockets, the way Christian had held her right here in the stable yard, the way a man he’d befriended stood a few yards off, pretending to play with the puppies while standing guard over Christian and Gilly both.

“Tell Marcus to blow the dower house to kindling. It has the creeping damp, and I cannot see myself inhabiting such a sorry dwelling, ever.”

“I’ll tell him no such thing.” Christian smiled as he kissed her cheek, which both gratified and annoyed her, for she’d been deadly serious and trying to convey something besides the proper fate of a neglected heap.

Then he was up on his horse, a groom handing him his crop. He lifted it as if to flourish it in a salute, but caught Gilly’s eye.

In her heart,
Don’t go
warred with
Take
me
with
you
. She blew him a kiss and tried to smile. He touched his hat brim with his riding crop and still didn’t nudge Chessie off down the drive.

“Gilly?”

She shaded her eyes to meet his gaze.

“Keep this for me—or destroy it.” He tossed her the crop, and she caught it, the first time she’d touched such a thing willingly in years.

“Until this evening,” he said, and then he and Chessie were clattering over the cobblestones and cantering down the curving driveway until they were out of sight.

Gilly held the riding crop without looking at it and waited for the familiar pounding to begin in her chest.

And waited, while the puppies gamboled, the morning breeze rippled the surface of the lake, and Gilly’s heart…went about its job, as if she held a stick to throw for the puppies, or a flower.

Christian had entrusted her with a simple riding crop, a wooden handle covered in cowhide, the braided leather ending in a short lash. She’d seen hundreds in her lifetime, held a few dozen, and swatted the occasional lazy horse with one, though never in anger.

She was still drying her tears a few minutes later when St. Just ambled over, passed her a plain cream silk handkerchief that smelled slightly of horse, and proposed she give him a tour of the gardens.

Of all the inconveniences plaguing Marcus Easterbrook, Christian Severn, eighth Duke of Mercia—and ironically, heir to the Greendale ancestral pile—figured as the most prominent. Even the damned weather cooperated in His Grace’s bloody social whims, for it was a perfect summer day. Sunny, dry, and pleasant without being hot, and the duke’s note had said he’d join his cousin for a midday meal.

Bad enough the man was unbreakable, and unkillable, but he was also likely to be punctual, so Marcus put the kitchen on notice that a proper feast had best be forthcoming at the one o’clock hour.

The staff would not disappoint. One result of inheriting from old Greendale was a staff who knew how to take orders from their betters.

And if Marcus were lucky, his dear former-step-aunt-the-countess would accompany Mercia on this call between relatives. Her ladyship had to be getting restless, what with being in mourning, and Mercia observing half mourning for the fair Helene.

Marcus wandered down to the stable, seeking a distraction from thoughts of Helene. Of the many bothersome results of Mercia’s return to the living, losing the use of Aragon—Chesterton, to the duke—was one of the worst. The beast had been handsome, faultlessly trained, and possessed of beautiful gaits.

The sound of hooves in the stable yard signaled Mercia’s arrival. Marcus put on his best charming smile, squared his shoulders, and prepared to greet a man who lacked the common decency to die when the opportunity presented itself, or even to lose his reason so a trustee—in the person of a devoted cousin—might have been appointed to oversee the ducal assets.

“Good morning, Your Grace.” Marcus extended a hand to Mercia. “A beautiful day for a ride. Hullo, horse. He looks to be thriving in your care.”

“As he did in yours.” The duke slapped Marcus hard on the back then looked around as a groom led the beast away. “The stables are not falling down. You exaggerated shamelessly.”

Mercia’s handshake was firm, his voice hearty, his dismount lithe. Marcus wanted to punch His Grace in his smiling face.

“Compared to Severn, this place is a disgrace. And I wish I could say I’ve found a great stash of the King’s coin hoarded up during all the years of neglect, but Greendale spent it on his entertainments and keeping the house up.”

Mercia’s smile turned disgustingly sympathetic. “You can always marry an heiress. In the alternative, rent out the house to some rich cit, fix yourself up a bachelor’s paradise in the gatehouse for a few years, diversify your incomes, and come visit me often. I promise to break out the best the cellars have to offer, and listen to all your woes.”

Goddamned
hail-fellow-well-met.

“Sounds like good advice, particularly if I want to look in on my uncle’s widow from time to time.”

“She offered to take Lucy in hand.” The words put shadows in the renowned Severn blue eyes, and this was a relief, because Marcus had lost his only spy in the ranks of Severn servants.

“The poor girl still hasn’t found her tongue?”

“No, and I lose hope she ever will. If seeing one’s dear papa rise from the dead, and commanding the daily care and company of the countess hasn’t wrought a miracle for Lucy, I’m not sure what will.”

Thank
God.
“She doesn’t lack wits,” Marcus said, leading his guest through the extravagance of the Greendale gardens. “Perhaps you might send her north to one of those establishments that deal specifically with hysterical females.”

Marcus, having done some research, could name a few that would treat the girl with admirable attention to discipline.

“The physicians offer their tuppence worth of guesses, but that’s all they are, guesses. You’re good to ask after her.”

“The best cousin you’ll ever have, and I’ve promised decent food and drink, because God knows Greendale took care of his cellars. Come, and we’ll wash the dust of the road from your throat. How is the countess, by the way?”

Mercia paused by a bed of mostly blown roses that had likely cost more than the mount Marcus made do with in Aragon’s absence. “Lady Greendale is struggling, Marcus.”

“Mourning is a difficult time.” What could make Gillian, Lady Greendale, struggle now, if eight years before the mast with the old man hadn’t done it?

“Mourning is difficult for us all. Helene was your friend.”

For God’s sake…after months of silence among the bloody French, Mercia had to turn up fearlessly blunt now. Marcus made a study of the roses, though if this variety had a scent, he could not detect it.

“Helene was your duchess, but these are gloomy thoughts on a beautiful day. Come up to the house, and we’ll enjoy some fine brandy before you interrogate me over lunch.”

He watched a strange look cross His Grace’s features at the use of the word interrogate, and knew a little satisfaction to think in some small way he could make his famous, unbreakable, quiet, ducal cousin squirm.

It wasn’t enough, but it was something.

***

St. Just’s gaze traveled from the vines twining up the curtains, to the pansies blooming on the pillowcases and slipcovers, and the intricate geometric designs on the runner gracing the coffee table in Gilly’s sitting room.

“You really do embroider everything in sight,” he said.

“And I embroider some things out of sight,” Gilly replied then realized from the smile on St. Just’s face that his imagination wasn’t conjuring images of handkerchiefs.

“Mercia warned me to lock up my stockings,” St. Just said, sauntering into the little parlor. He was a good-looking man, less refined than Christian, but blessed with a pair of green eyes sporting long dark lashes and winging dark brows. All in all, an imposing man, but somehow, less of a man to Gilly than Christian.

St. Just had never been taken captive, never known torture, never been moved nigh to violence at the sight of an unexpected kitten. These facts ought to diminish Christian, but in her eyes, they gilded his courage and made him all the more remarkable.

“If you keep looking at the clock, my lady, the hands will advance, and your duke will return, but a visit to the back terrace might be in order if you’re not to entirely waste this beautiful day.”

“You’ve been very patient with me,” she said, rising. “Another turn through the park might serve.”

He offered his arm and matched her pace as they made their way to the terrace. He’d been a cheerful if ruthless companion when she gardened, pulling weeds beside her with a sort of barbaric enthusiasm. She’d asked him about his horses, though, and his gaze had softened considerably.

Over lunch, he’d told her amusing stories about his siblings and about that august personage, his father, the Duke of Moreland. Then he’d let George and John stand guard outside the study door while she caught up on correspondence, but here he was, again taking escort duty.

“Do you miss your siblings, Colonel?” she asked as they descended from the back terrace.

“A challenging question, to which a man not decorated for bravery would say, of course.”

“But you are a brave man, so…?”

“I miss them, and I dread them,” he said, and rather than tour the roses—which were past their prime—St. Just escorted Gilly in the direction of the stables. “We’ve been at peace for months now, and I expect to wake up one day and say to myself, ‘Well, now, things are back to normal, and isn’t that a great relief?’”

“Except?”

“Except I keep waking up prepared to tell my men we’re moving on to another town, farther to the north and east, pushing our way across the entire Iberian Peninsula to crawl up Bonaparte’s back. I expect to hear we’re besieging yet another bloody walled city, and I do mean sanguinary, with all the same carnage and misery the last siege provoked.”

The charming officer had gone, leaving a career soldier in his place, and Gilly liked this fellow even more than that officer.

“You miss war?” Gilly asked, because she missed nothing, not one thing, about her marriage to Greendale.

A curiously happy thought.

“I grew used to it,” he said. “I knew who my enemies were, who was under my command, and what our objective was when we marched out. I had specific tasks: get this report to that general, count the number of horses in the following towns, and so forth. This is not a fit topic for a lady.”

“The interesting topics never are. So you do miss it.”

The gardens were past their peak, and the fall flowers hadn’t yet started to bloom. St. Just knelt to snap off a sprig of lavender and held it under his nose.

“I miss having a purpose as compelling as life and death, King and Country. I miss being something besides Moreland’s oldest by-blow.”

My goodness, no wonder Christian considered this man a friend. “Moreland has more than one?”

“I have a half sister similarly situated, and in many ways, her lot is more difficult than mine.”

Gilly did not ask what could be more difficult than war; she didn’t need to.

And St. Just wouldn’t say more, wouldn’t prose off into a description of his siblings again. Though it might have been the easier course for them both, Gilly didn’t want him to.

“I’ve heard rumors,” St. Just said, crumpling the lavender in his fist. “Rumors the Corsican is trying to escape from his island, rumors the French would march with him again if he did. The poor devils have forgotten how to go on in peacetime, and Napoleon left them little enough to go on with.”

The scent of lavender wafted on the summer air when St. Just opened his fist.

“And you’re ready to fight him again if he does.” Gilly didn’t make it a question. St. Just looked so unhappy, so bewildered, she realized she’d hit the mark. “Why?”

He tossed the mangled lavender aside and was quiet for a moment, gazing out over the back gardens, then one corner of his mouth kicked up.

“Damned if I know. Pardon the language.”

Gilly remained beside him in the fading afternoon light and realized if Christian were there, he might have an answer. He might have the wisdom and the courage to understand why a man, a good man, was choosing war and death over a life of peace and plenty.

“Your brother is ill, isn’t he?” Gilly asked.

“I will have to admonish your duke that unpleasant confidences spilled over the brandy aren’t for a pretty lady’s ears.”

She led him to a bench, the topic being a sitting-down sort of subject.

“I keep you in my prayers, Colonel, and Christian considers you a friend. You needn’t worry I’ll spread gossip.” To the vicar? Who was concerned only about his leaky roof and launching four daughters?

“I would never accuse you of gossiping. Victor puts a brave face on his illness for the sake of my parents. We all know he’s consumptive, but my father acts as if Victor malingers, and we must drag him to the sea and the quacks and the countryside all in aid of denying his approaching death.”

“Once death becomes a friend, much becomes easier. Easier for the one dying, but perhaps harder for those left to grieve.”

St. Just sat beside her, a man comfortable in his skin if not entirely comfortable with peacetime. “You’ve recently buried a spouse. I am remiss to bring up such a dolorous topic when you’re in mourning.”

Gilly had been the one to bring it up, not the colonel.

“I am in mourning,” Gilly said, “but not, I think, for my late husband. Shall we walk farther, Colonel? The sun will soon set, and the light is so pretty.”

He winged his arm at her, and Gilly tried to enjoy his silent company. He was charming enough and all that was considerate, like Christian. He bore a pleasant scent and was of a height with Christian too.

But it wasn’t the right scent; it wasn’t ginger and lemon with an undercurrent of rose. St. Just was a hair too tall, a tad too thickly muscled, his eyes green not blue.

He was a good man; he wasn’t the right man. He sought a return to war, for which Gilly did not blame him, but part of why she was in love with Christian was that despite his past, he’d turned his sights to peace and to a future free of violence and destruction.

As Gilly could.

As she had, and this notion, too, was a wonderfully happy thought.

***

The duke’s appetite was in good repair, and to Marcus, that was depressing enough. His Grace laughed heartily at some joke Marcus’s ancient steward told, flirted with the tenants’ daughters, and generally comported himself with more bloody charm than a regiment of officers on leave. This Mercia had been easy to forget, the hearty, healthy man in great good spirits.

When Mercia had left London, he’d still been swilling hot water instead of tea, downing oranges to address inchoate scurvy, jumping at shadows, and barely capable of riding on his own through the park. He’d received not one caller, though dozens of calling cards from the best families had been left at his door.

Marcus’s spies might have been lying, but chambermaids were usually too stupid to know when they were being pumped for information, particularly if they were being swived silly at the same time.

“What emerges as your first priority as you put Greendale back on solid footing?” His Grace asked. They were walking their horses to the stables after spending much of the afternoon ambling around the Greendale property. They’d toured only the tenant farms in the best repair, Marcus being unwilling to reveal the full depth of the estate’s problems to anybody save his man of business.

“I cringe to say it, but probably liquidating what isn’t entailed, though that has become complicated.”

“Complicated how?”

Life had been so much easier when one’s enemies could be murdered outright.

“I must wait to get my hands on the personal estate until the lawyers have done with their fussing.”

“They should be able to turn loose enough money to maintain the estate,” Mercia said. “Bloody vultures. If you need funds, you have only to say.”

“Good of you.”

The words cost him, but Marcus fiddled with his horse’s mane in an effort to appear appropriately self-conscious.

“I can put in a word at the law offices for you if like. I might be going up to Town in the next few weeks, in any case.”