Authors: Elizabeth Hoyt
“Oh,” she squeaked. He stood for a moment on the other side of the puddle, holding her in the air without any visible sign
of strain. “My lord!”
He cocked his head, studying her face just slightly above his. “Yes?”
She felt her breath come short, very aware of his large hands at her waist and the gleam in his black eyes.
“You should put me down,” Beatrice hissed. “People are staring.”
And indeed they were. A group of ladies giggled nervously behind gloved hands, and a cart driver leered as he passed.
“Are they?” he asked absently.
“Lord Hope—”
But he was lowering her to the ground as if nothing had happened. Really! He hadn’t given her any warning at all. Did he
want
to be thought mad?
She peeked up at him and cleared her throat. “What’s the gauntlet?”
“A nasty way to welcome captives to an Indian camp.” He held out his arm for her, and she placed her gloved fingers primly
on his sleeve. “All the inhabitants in the village form two lines, and the captive must run between them.”
“That doesn’t sound too bad.”
He looked down at her, the bird tattoos decorating his swarthy skin, the iron cross swinging from his ear. He looked like
a pirate. “They hit and kick the captive as he runs.”
“Oh.” She swallowed. “And when he reaches the end of the line, what happens then?”
“It depends,” he said, guiding her around a clump of ladies eagerly peering in a shop window. “If the captive is a child or
young boy, sometimes he is adopted into the Indian tribe.”
“And if he is older?” she whispered, dreading the answer.
“Then most often he is tortured and killed.”
She inhaled sharply. He said it so matter-of-factly.
“Were you . . .” She swallowed. How could she ask? But she had to know. The experience no matter how terrible was part of
who he was. “Were you—”
“I wasn’t tortured.” His lips tightened as he looked straight ahead. “Not then anyway.”
Sudden tears rushed to her eyes.
No,
part of her wailed inside.
Not him. Not this man.
She’d known it had to have happened, but to hear it from his lips was devastating. For them to have hurt—
shamed
—this man ripped apart a portion of her soul. She felt suddenly older. Weary with the knowledge.
“What happened instead?” she asked quietly.
“Gaho saved me,” he said.
“Who is Gaho? And how did he save you?”
“She.”
She stopped and looked up at him, ignoring the mutters of the other pedestrians who were forced to go around them. “A lady
Indian saved you?”
He smiled down into her face, making the birds crinkle as if they’d taken flight. “Yes. A powerful lady Indian saved me. She
owned more furs, more pots, and more slaves than any other in that village. You might even call her a princess.”
“Humph.” She faced forward and began to walk, but she was unable to keep the question from leaving her lips. “Was she pretty?”
“Very.” She felt the whisper of his breath against her ear as he leaned down to tease her. “For a woman in her sixth decade.”
“Oh.” She tilted her nose in the air, feeling irrationally relieved. “Well, how did Gaho save you?”
“Sastaretsi had a rather bad reputation it seems. A year before, he’d killed one of Gaho’s favorite slaves in an argument.
Gaho was a wise woman. She knew that Sastaretsi had very little to his name, so she’d bided her time until he acquired something
that she might demand in repayment for the loss of her slave—me.”
“And what did she do with you?”
“What do you think, Miss Corning?” His wide, sensuous mouth twisted, curving down sardonically. “I was the son of an earl,
a captain in His Majesty’s army, and I became the slave of an old Indian woman. Is that what you wanted to hear? That I was
reduced to the lowest of the low in that Indian camp?”
He’d stopped in the street, but no one muttered as the crowd gave them a wide berth. Lord Hope might be attired like an aristocrat,
but his expression was savage at the moment.
Beatrice had a cowardly urge to flee, but she stood her ground, tilting her chin up at him, holding his wild black eyes as
she said, “No. No, I never wanted to hear that you were humiliated.”
He leaned over her, large and intimidating. “Then why persist in asking?”
“Because I need to know,” she said low and rapidly. “I need to know everything that happened to you, everything you experienced
in that place. I need to know why you are the man you’ve become.”
“Why?” His black eyes widened with confusion. “Why?”
And all she could whisper was, “I just do.”
Because she couldn’t admit, even to herself, why.
R
EYNAUD HAD LED
men into battle, had faced an Indian gauntlet without flinching, had endured seven years as the slave of his enemy and survived.
All this he had done without a breath of fear. Therefore, it was simply impossible that he’d feel missish nerves at the thought
of a ball.
Yet, impossible as it seemed, here he was pacing the hallway as he waited for Miss Corning to descend the stairs.
Reynaud halted and took a deep breath. He was the son of an earl. He’d attended innumerable balls before his capture in the
Colonies. This creeping feeling he had—that he no longer belonged in London society, that he’d be denounced and repudiated—was
ridiculous. He shrugged his shoulders in his new coat, twisting his head about to loosen the muscles of his neck. His new
wig was impeccable, he knew—he’d hired a competent valet with the monies lent by his aunt—but it still felt foreign on his
head. When he’d lived with the Indians, the only thing he’d covered his head with was a blanket, and then only when the winters
were especially cold. He’d worn a long tail of braided hair, and his clothes had been a shirt, breechcloth, leggings, and
moccasins—all soft materials, well worn and comfortable. Now he had a scratchy wig on his newly shorn head, a neck cloth half
strangling him, and his new dancing slippers felt tight. Why so-called civilized men should choose to wear—
“Thought you’d be gone to that damned ball by now,” a male voice said from behind him.
Reynaud whirled, crouching low, his knife already in his right hand. St. Aubyn started back.
“Have a care,” the usurper cried. “Could hurt someone with that knife.”
“Not unless I wished to,” Reynaud said as he straightened. His heart pounded erratically. He slid his knife back inside the
sheath he’d had specially made and glanced up the staircase. Miss Corning was late. “And I’m waiting for your niece if you
must know.”
“What d’you mean, waiting?” St. Aubyn’s face darkened.
“I mean,” Reynaud enunciated clearly, “that I intend to escort Miss Corning to the ball given by my aunt.”
“Nonsense!” the old man sputtered. “If anyone’s escorting Beatrice, ’twill be me.”
Reynaud arched an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware you were attending the ball.” St. Aubyn had been invited, of course, but from his
lack of comment in the last week, Reynaud had rather thought the other man had thrown the invitation away.
Apparently not.
“Of course I’ll be attending. Think I’d let a popinjay such as you chase me away?”
Reynaud took a step closer to the other man so that he loomed over him. “When I’m in possession of my title, I shall take
great pleasure in personally throwing you from this house.”
St. Aubyn’s face was nearly apoplectic. “Your title! Your title! You’ll never see it, sir!”
“I’ve already set the date to appeal my case before the parliamentary committee.” Reynaud slowly grinned as he watched all
color drain from the older man’s face.
St. Aubyn’s mouth twisted. “They’ll take one look at you and deny you the title. You’re insane, and everyone in London knows
it. One only has to see those tattoos and—”
But something had snapped in Reynaud. He surged forward, gripping the older man’s neck and slamming him against the wall.
The usurper’s face turned purple, the sour smell of fear rolling off him, and then St. Aubyn’s gooseberry eyes suddenly shifted,
looking behind Reynaud.
At the same time, small fists pounded his back.
“Let go of him! Let go of him!” Miss Corning cried.
Reynaud bared his teeth at St. Aubyn and then backed away, freeing the man.
Immediately Miss Corning flew to her uncle. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine—” the old man started.
But she swung on Reynaud like an avenging fury. “How
dare
you? What could possibly possess you to manhandle him so?”
Reynaud raised his hands in surrender. He knew better than to try to talk his way out of this. But then he really looked at
Miss Corning. She wore a blazing bronze gown that made her creamy skin positively glow. The bodice was low and square, and
her breasts were pressed into two tempting mounds.
“Ahem.”
His gaze snapped up at her pointed murmur.
Miss Corning’s bosom might be inviting, but her expression was anything but. “You had no right to lay hands on Uncle Reggie.
He’s ill—”
“Beatrice!” her uncle protested, looking embarrassed.
“It’s true and he needs to know it.” She stood with arms akimbo and glared at Reynaud. “Uncle Reggie had an attack of apoplexy
a little more than a month ago. You could’ve killed him just now. Promise me you’ll never lay hands on him again.”
Reynaud eyed the older man, who wasn’t looking particularly grateful for his niece’s interference.
“Lord Hope.” She stepped closer and laid one gloved hand on his chest, looking up into his face. “Promise me, my lord.”
He took her hand and, holding her gaze, slowly raised it to his lips. “As you wish,” he breathed over her knuckles.
She blushed and snatched back her hand. Reynaud grinned.
But St. Aubyn was not as interested in avoiding discord. “Surely you don’t mean to accompany this… this jackanapes to the
ball, Beatrice?”
Miss Corning hesitated, but then she threw back her shoulders and turned to her uncle. “I’m afraid I do.”
“But, m’dear, had I known you wished to go to this ball, I could’ve escorted you.”
“I know, Uncle Reggie, dear.” She laid a hand on the old man’s arm. “You’ve always been most attentive in taking me to whatever
amusements I fancied. But you see, Lord Hope asked me to this ball, and I want to go with him.”
St. Aubyn shook off her hand rudely. “Is that your choice, then, girl? Him? Because I tell you right now, there’ll be a choice
to be made: him or me. You can’t have it both ways.”
Miss Corning’s hand fell to her side, but her gaze was steady and unwavering on her uncle. For the first time, Reynaud realized
that there was a kind of strength there beneath her sweet manner. “Perhaps I will have to make a choice someday. But that
is not my wish, truly. Can’t you see that?”
“Your wishes don’t come into it, lass. Remember that.” He shook a finger in her face. “And don’t forget who’s kept a roof
over your head these nineteen years. If I’d known how ungrateful you’d be for the care I’ve shown you—”
“Enough.” Reynaud stepped toward the man.
“No.” Miss Corning laid her hand on Reynaud’s arm now, but unlike her uncle, he wasn’t going to hurt her feelings by shaking
her off.
St. Aubyn eyed her hand, and his lips twisted. Then he turned abruptly and stomped up the stairs.
“He hasn’t the right to talk to you so,” Reynaud growled softly.
“He has every right.” She turned to look at him, but though her gaze was steady, her gray eyes sparkled with tears. “He’s
perfectly correct; he has provided a home—and love—for me for nineteen years. And I’ve hurt his feelings.”
Reynaud took her hand and moved it farther up his arm so that he could escort her to the waiting carriage. “Nonetheless, I
don’t want him acting toward you the way he just did. Do you need a wrap?”
“I had my maid put a wrap in the carriage, and don’t try to change the subject. It’s not your duty to defend me from my uncle.”
He stopped beside the carriage steps, forcing her to halt as well. “If I choose to defend you from your uncle—or anyone else—I
damned well will with or without your permission, madam.”
“Goodness, how very primitive of you,” she said. “Are you going to help me into the carriage, or will you keep me out here,
proclaiming your right to safeguard me until I freeze?”
He frowned down at her, but every reply he could think of made him look an ass, so he simply handed her into the carriage
without a word. The door was shut behind him, and in a moment the horses started forward.
He looked across at Miss Corning, who’d pulled a thin wrap about her shoulders. “That gown becomes you.”
She smiled, quick and brilliant. “Why, thank you, my lord.”
He cast about for something else to say but couldn’t think of a thing. He was out of practice in the art of light conversation,
after all. Most of his discussion of the last seven years had been filled with the topic of food—where there might be game
and if there was enough meat to feed Gaho’s small band for the winter.
Miss Corning was the one who broke the silence. “Are you going to tell me about your experiences in the Indian camp?”
He was silent a moment, reluctant to continue the story. It was all in his past anyway. Wasn’t it better forgotten? To bring
up starvation and torture, nights of lying awake far from home and family, fearful that he’d never see England again… surely
there was no need to make that all come alive again?
“Please?” she whispered, and he caught the scent of English flowers—her scent.
Why did she demand this of him? She didn’t even seem to know herself. And yet he felt compelled to answer her demand.
Even if it meant tearing open a still-fresh wound.
“Later.” The glow from the carriage lantern illuminated her face and shoulders but left the rest of the lady in darkness,
giving her an air of mystery. Reynaud felt a stirring low in his belly at the sight. If telling her his wretched story brought
her closer, it was well worth it.
He stretched his legs so that they brushed against the voluminous skirts of her gown. “I’ll tell you all about living in an
Indian village, about hunting deer and raccoon, and even about the time I battled a full-grown bear.”