To Desire a Devil (30 page)

She was silent, both of her hands wrapped around his now.

“He meant to kill me. To torture me until I begged and then burn me alive.”

“But you didn’t die,” Beatrice said. She sounded urgent. “You survived.”

“Yes, I survived,” he said. “I survived by refusing to utter a sound. No matter what he did to me, no matter how he beat me
or made my blood flow, I remained silent. And then a miracle occurred.”

He looked at her, his sheltered wife. He should’ve never told her this story, never let her hear about the darkness he’d been
through, the shame.

“What happened?”

“Gaho and her family returned,” he said simply, the words in no way conveying the wonder he’d felt at the event. “She told
me later that she’d had a dream. In the dream, a snake was wrestling with a wolf, and the snake had its fangs sunk into the
wolf’s neck. She said that the voice of her father told her that the snake must not win. When she woke, she cut short the
festivities and came home.”

“What did she do?” Beatrice asked.

Reynaud’s mouth twisted. “She saved me from death. She freed me, gave me water, washed and bound my wounds, and on the morning
of the next day, she gave me a knife and bid me to do what I must.”

“What did you have to do?”

“Kill Sastaretsi,” he said. “I was weak, suffering from the loss of my blood and the illness, but I had to kill him. He knew
what I would do—even without Gaho’s permission, I could not let him live—and he could’ve run in the night, but instead he
stayed to fight me.”

“And you won,” she said.

“Yes, I won,” he said, feeling no victory at all.

She sighed and settled against his shoulder. “I’m glad. I’m glad you killed Sastaretsi. I’m glad you survived.”

“Yes,” he said softly. “As am I.”

If he hadn’t survived, she wouldn’t be in his arms right now. That at least was good. Reynaud closed his eyes and felt the
warm softness of his wife, the scent of woman and flowers surrounding him. He listened as her breathing evened and deepened
as she fell asleep, and he gave thanks that he could experience this moment, this woman.

Perhaps it made everything that had come before worth it.

“Y
OU RISE EARLY
for a man newly married,” Vale said cheerfully a week later. “Perhaps you got too much sleep last night.”

Samuel Hartley, walking on the other side of Vale, snorted. All three men were strolling a fashionable London street to discourage
eavesdroppers, their pace swift, for the wind was quite chilly.

Reynaud scowled at them both. It was a beautiful morning, and he’d left his new wife sleeping in their warm bed so he might
come consult with these two jesters.

And they didn’t even appreciate his sacrifice. “We can give you some help, if you need it,” Vale continued, as mindless as
a jackdaw, “on the wonders of marital bliss. At least I can.”

He looked at Hartley in question.

“As can I,” the Colonial replied. His wide mouth was straight, but something about it made it seem like he was laughing.

“I’m glad to hear it considering that you’re married to my sister,” Reynaud replied with an edge to his voice.

Hartley’s expression didn’t change, but his body seemed to grow more tense. “You should have no worries that I’ll take care
of Emeline.”

“Good to know.”

“Now, now,” Vale said in a sickeningly sweet voice reminiscent of a nursery nanny. “I already gave him a drubbing for courting
Emmie.”

Reynaud raised his eyebrows. “You did?”

“He did not,” Hartley said even as Vale nodded happily. “I threw him down the stairs.”

Vale pursed his lips and looked skyward. “Not my recollection, but I can see how your memory of the event may’ve become hazy.”

“Now, look here,” Hartley began quietly, a thread of amusement in his voice.

“Gentlemen,” Reynaud said, “we need to come to the crux of the matter, for it is indeed only a week after my wedding, and
my lovely wife will eventually expect me to wait attendance on her.”

“Very well.” Hartley nodded, serious now. “What have you discovered since I last saw you, Vale?”

“There are rumors both that the Spinner’s Falls traitor was a nobleman and that his mother was French,” Vale said promptly.

Hartley cocked his head. “And where did you get this information?”

“Munroe,” Reynaud said, Vale having informed him at their previous meeting. “The first bit of information he had from a colleague
in France; the second—”

“He got it from Hasselthorpe,” Vale said, “although he didn’t deign to share the information with me until a month or so ago.”

Hartley looked at him curiously. “Why ever not?”

Vale looked embarrassed.

“I expect because of me,” Reynaud said. “My mother was French.”

“Of course.” Hartley nodded.

“No doubt he thought that if I was already dead, there was no point in casting doubt upon my name,” Reynaud said drily. “But
since it happens that I’m not dead . . .”

“Now we need to think of who else among the survivors had a French mother,” Vale said grimly. “Because whoever it is must
be the traitor.”

“But there isn’t anyone else,” Hartley said.

Reynaud grimaced. “If you’re suggesting it’s me—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hartley snapped. “Just listen. There’s you, me, Vale here, Munroe, Wimbley, Barrows, Nate Growe, and
Douglas—I’ve talked to them all.”

“Yes.” Vale said. “And all are from London and probably had ancestors running about in blue at the time of the Roman invasion.”

“Thornton, Horn, Allen, and Craddock are dead,” Hartley continued, “but we investigated them thoroughly. None of these men
had French mothers. There simply isn’t anyone else who survived who could be the man.”

“Then perhaps it was someone killed,” Reynaud said softly. “Though that doesn’t make sense.”

“Who else had a French mother?” Vale asked.

“Clemmons had a French sister-in-law,” Hartley said thoughtfully.

“Did he?” Vale stared. “I had no idea.”

Hartley nodded. “He mentioned it once. A younger brother’s wife, but she is dead.”

“It doesn’t fit in any case,” Reynaud said impatiently. “Not unless Munroe’s source was inaccurate.”

Hartley shook his head.

“We need to talk to Munroe, see if he has any recollection,” Reynaud said.

“I sent a messenger to him some weeks ago,” Vale said. “But the man hasn’t responded.”

Reynaud grunted. Munroe was well known as a recluse, but they needed his memories, too. Perhaps he’d have to take Beatrice
on a trip to Scotland.

But first there were more pressing matters to attend to.

“I plan to plead my case before the special committee of parliament tomorrow,” he said to the other two. “So that I can regain
my title as the Earl of Blanchard. And I’d like your help.”

Vale raised an eyebrow. “You have it, of course, but what do you have in mind?”

Reynaud glanced about them to make sure no one was paying special attention to their conversation, then said, “I have an idea . . .”

B
EATRICE LAID OUT
her bookbinding tools carefully. She was always excited to begin a new project. She liked the anticipation of taking either
an old and falling-apart book and putting it in order or taking what was essentially a sheaf of papers and turning it into
a lovely book. It was almost an art, really. And she liked her tools and materials to be just so. The different-sized bonefolders
aligned perfectly, the needles in their little box, the spools of thread lined up along the upper edge of her worktable. Later
she’d look through her supplies of pretty paper and calf’s hide, but for the moment she was interested only in cutting, folding,
and sewing.

She hummed softly to herself as she worked, quite content, and thus it was with some surprise that she heard the clock in
the hall and realized that it was almost time for dinner. Footsteps and male voices sounded in the hall, and she cocked her
head, listening for her husband’s voice. She looked up when the door to her little sitting room opened.

“Ah, there you are,” Reynaud said as he walked in.

She smiled because it seemed she could not help but smile like a fool when she saw her husband. Every day she was married
to him, she became more enthralled with him—and the knowledge made her uneasy. He’d still not said that he loved her, and
he rarely showed her affection except in the privacy of their bedroom. Perhaps that was normal in a society marriage. Perhaps
most gentlemen had trouble expressing affection.

God, she hoped so.

Beatrice looked down blindly at her worktable. “Did you enjoy your visit with Lord Vale?”

“
Enjoyed
may not be exactly the right word.” He came to stand beside her table. “What is this?”

“A book I’m binding for Lady Vale.” She looked up at him. “It’s for your sister. Apparently, your nanny read it to you both
when you were children.”

“Indeed?” He bent over her shoulder, studying the pages she was sewing. “I’ll be damned. It’s the tale of Longsword.” A wondering
smile lit his face. “That was a favorite of mine.”

“Perhaps I should make a book for us as well, then,” Beatrice said lightly.

“Why?”

“Well . . .” She looked down at her hands, carefully drawing the thread. “For our children, naturally. I’m sure you’d like
to read them the book you enjoyed as a child.”

He shrugged. “If you wish.”

Beatrice wrinkled her nose, frowning fiercely to keep back silly tears. Childish of her to feel hurt at his dismissive tone.
She drew a breath. “What did you talk about with Lord Vale?”

“My title,” he said. “I intend to get it back tomorrow, if you remember.”

“Of course.” She busied herself with her tools. He sounded so sure, but the rumors of his madness still swirled about the
streets of London.

“And once I obtain it, this house will be mine alone.”

“I hope you’ll not mind Uncle Reggie and me staying here as well.” She tried to say the words lightly.

“Don’t be silly.” He frowned.

“I’m not silly,” she said, pulling her thread too tight. “It’s just . . .”

“What?” he snapped.

She laid down her work and looked at him, drawing a deep breath. “You’re obsessed with regaining your title, your monies,
your lands, everything you lost, in fact, and I understand that, but there’s more than that for you to think about.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, his face sharp and lined.

Beatrice lifted her chin. “Have you thought about what you’ll do once you become the earl?”

“I’ll manage my estates, attend to my land and investments.” He waved an impatient hand. “What else do you suggest I do?”

She laid a hand on her worktable, clutching the edge. He could be so intimidating when angered! “You could do so much good
as the earl—”

“And I intend to,” he said.

“Do you?” Her voice was sharp, and she no longer cared. He was dismissing her and her thoughts out of hand. “Do you? All I’ve
heard you talk about is your house, your monies, your lands. Have you no thought of how you’ll live your life once you already
have all those things? You’ll sit in the House of Lords. You’ll be able to vote on bills before parliament, even champion
your own if you wish.”

“You talk to me like I’m an infant, Beatrice,” he snapped. “What are you trying to get at?”

“There’s a bill that’ll be presented tomorrow,” she said before she could lose courage. “Mr. Wheaton’s veteran’s pension bill.
It would provide for soldiers who are no longer in His Majesty’s army, give them a pension so they wouldn’t have to beg on
the street—”

He waved a dismissive hand. “I don’t have the time right now to—”

She slammed her hand down on her desk, making the book slide to the floor. He turned, looking at her in astonishment.

Beatrice drew herself up. “When will you have the time, Reynaud? When?”

“I’ve told you,” he said coldly. “After I am certain of my title.”

“You’ll just suddenly start caring for others then? Is that it?” She’d begun to shake. This discussion was no longer about
Mr. Wheaton’s bill. It’d become bigger somehow. “Tell me, Reynaud, do you love me?”

He cocked his head, eyeing her warily. “Why are you asking me now?”

“I’m not implying anything,” she said. “I’m saying it flat out. I don’t believe you. I think you’ve kept your emotions under such tight rein for so long that you no longer know how to let them loose. I don’t think you can care for others at all.”

And she walked from the sitting room.

The princess shrank in fear, but though he knelt on one knee, Longsword did not flinch. He met the dragon’s charge with the
steel of his blade. Once, twice, thrice, he swung his mighty sword, and when at last the dust had cleared and all was silent
again, there lay the great dragon, dying at his feet. And as the beast died, its form changed until a horrid hag lay in its
place, for it was the evil witch herself who had assumed the shape of a dragon.

Well! The princess was quite pleased, I can tell you. She rushed to release her father the king. When it was made known to
him that Longsword had by himself defeated the evil witch, the king was happy indeed to give his only child as a reward.