The Captive

by Grace Burrowes

  She opened her mouth and turned her face to his chest. Not a kiss, certainly not a nibble. She inhaled, trying to get nearer to his essence, and bundled in, closing her eyes to the half-naked sight of him. She’d been terrified in that coach, and she was terrified in a different way in Christian Severn’s embrace.

  Later, she’d think. Now, all she wanted was to feel. Feel him, feel them together, feel her body coming to life with all the terror and determination of a spirit first emerging into the world.

  “Gillian?”

  She felt his voice as much as heard it, and understood he was putting a question to her. Before she could lose her nerve, she framed his newly smooth jaw with her hands. He could turn his face aside, thwart what her body insisted she needed, but he only pressed his mouth to the heel of her hands, left and right.

  Then she found him with her lips. Went up on her toes, and sealed her mouth to his, having no plan beyond that.

  His arms came around her, as snug as an anchor’s chains around their capstan, giving her purchase and balance, and most of all, giving her relief from the fear he’d pull away and turn from her.

  He stroked a hand over her hair, slowly, and Gilly’s desperation eased. She needn’t gobble him up; he’d allow a little savoring.

  She followed his lead, trailing her fingers through his golden hair, glorying in the silky abundance of it, shaping his skull, tracing his nape, learning him in each bodily detail.

  To touch…to caress, to surrender to tenderness and desire and the fierce, awful longing.

  He lifted his mouth from hers and traced his lips along her temple, then down, over her jaw, and Gilly understood: he wanted to touch as well, and she would glory in that too. She stood still for him as he inhaled through his nose, his breath breezing warmly past her ear. He nuzzled her neck and made her shiver with the pleasure of it, then teased the corner of her mouth with a half kiss.

  She dimly perceived he was withdrawing though, easing her down, and her disappointment was tempered only by the knowledge he abandoned her reluctantly. When he’d mapped each of her features thoroughly with his mouth, when his hands had traced each knob and bump in her spine, he came to rest, his chin on her crown, his arms securely around her.

  “Countess, you must forgive me.”

  Countess, not Gillian. He didn’t let her go, and Gilly hid her face against him. Goddamn him, he sounded genuinely remorseful when she ought to be the one mustering regret.

  “We have committed no wrong requiring forgiveness.”

  “You are widowed and alone, under my protection if you’re under anybody’s, and I have taken advantage of your grief.”

  His hand moved over her hair, cradling her head to him as if to emphasize his role of protector, but was simple protection ever a matter of such gentle handling?

  “I am not grieving. I am celebrating.”

  She tore herself from his arms and stomped into his bedroom. When she passed him a dressing gown, he took it.

  “I am sorry,” he said again. “No woman, much less a lady, much less you, should see me thus.” He shrugged into the dressing gown, and Gilly wanted to weep for the loss of the sight of him, even as she knew that blue velvet garment was all that remained between her dignity and utter wantonness.

  “Your modesty becomes you, Mercia, but if you think I find you anything but appallingly beautiful, you are an idiot.”

  Idiot? Had that word come from her mouth, and directed at him?

  He knotted the belt. Slowly, slowly one corner of his mouth kicked up, then the other. Only to settle back almost immediately.

  “You were married to an old man,” he said, expression shuttering. “Perhaps compared to him, even I fare tolerably.”

  He found a brush on the windowsill and used his reflection in the shaving mirror to bring some order to his hair, but didn’t queue it back.

  “You torment me, leaving it loose.” She snatched up a black hair ribbon and marched over to him. He stood still while she bound his hair back.

  “Countess…”

  “Gillian, I should think. I’ve shaved you and dressed your hair.”

  The smile again, even more fleeting, as if he hadn’t the stamina for it. “And kissed me.”

  “I wasn’t the only one doing the kissing, Your Grace.”

  She clung to that. She’d interested him at least a kiss or two worth.

  “To my confoundment and delight, I did kiss you. And enjoyed it thoroughly, but, my lady…I cannot allow myself to take such advantage again.”

  “Whyever not? I’m a blessed, benighted widow. I’ve finally reached the point in life where advantage may be taken.”

  “No, it may not,” he said, a little of the duke infusing his voice. “You bestow favors where you will, with discretion, but you shall not be taken advantage of.”

  “We are at an impasse,” she said, trying to fathom what he wasn’t saying. Some issue or insight lurked in this ducal posturing, something he was talking around. “I would have us kiss again. You are telling me you enjoyed what just passed between us, but will deny me in future out of concern for what or whom? Me?”

  She thumped down on his sofa, sure in her bones the Almighty had put men on earth to drive women barmy. “I can assure you I’d consider it the greater regard did you indulge my foolish impulses, Your Grace.”

  Admitting that caused a blush to rise and made her determined to keep her yammering mouth shut, lest she lose her self-control entirely and beg him for more kisses, more caresses.

  He sat beside her and took her left hand in his right.

  She wanted to snatch her hand away, but also to climb into his lap and resume kissing him. He traced her knuckles with his left hand while she felt him marshaling arguments, preparing to ease her down gently again.

  “I can barely tie back my own hair,” he said. “After several clumsy attempts, I manage something like a queue, but it’s tedious, and inclines me to go about like a half-groomed barbarian instead.”

  “Most unmarried men of any station have a valet—”

  He shook his head. “I cannot abide to have another man tend me.” He wasn’t proud of that; the humiliation was in his voice.

  “You allow me to tend you.”

  “I could toss you across the room with my bad hand. And you are not a man.”

  Yes, he could toss her across the room with one hand. He was both taller and, at least recently, more fit than Greendale had ever been, and Gilly had never been bothered by that, which was…interesting.

  “You did notice my gender. I’m encouraged, Your Grace.”

  “You don’t want to hear my explanations and apologies. I can only apologize for that as well.”

  “Your excuses.”

  “You are asking me, in essence, to compromise you.” He did not sound angry, so much as amused—drat and blast him. “Whether with ill-timed kisses, or indiscretions of a more passionate nature. You would regret it, you would hate me, and while I do not deny you’d find pleasure in it—I would insist on pleasure for you—your eventual distaste I could not abide. Not all of my scars have been revealed to you, my lady.”

  He stared straight ahead, as if puzzling out the honor of it for himself.

  And Gilly puzzled out a few things too, holding his hand as the late-afternoon sun cast the room in a mellow light.

  He needed her to think well of him.

  He held her reputation in significant regard.

  He thought her attraction to him was a function of grief or abstinence, not unique to him, not something out of the ordinary for her.

  And he desired her. In his touch, in what he said, in what he did not say, the Duke of Mercia desired her.

  And most important of all, something Gilly had no doubt divined on an intuitive level but had needed to hear, too: he’d promised her that if they were intimate, she
would find the experience pleasurable.

  He’d said he’d insist on that, and she believed him.

  ***

  “Oh, aye, it were a bad, bad moment.”

  John Coachman banged his tankard in a signal for a refill, which the gentleman sharing the snug with him would no doubt pay for. The gentleman was buying, said his uncle had been a coachman, and the gent always stood a coachman to a drink when traveling from Town.

  John was ever fond of good English ale, and the Lion and Cock served some of the best summer ale in Surrey. The day had been long and hot, mostly spent loading up Lady Greendale’s things from the old earl’s place and piling them high on the wagon. The return trip to Severn would be a thirsty undertaking, indeed.

  “We’d been making good time from Town,” John said, “for her ladyship were keen to get back to Severn.”

  “Fancies running the duke’s household, does she?”

  John blinked at his ale, because the comment bordered on impertinent, and come to that, the fellow talked a bit toplofty to be a coachman’s nephew. Might even be some Frog or some American in his accent.

  “She fancies her wee niece,” he said. “Devoted to the girl, used to come over regular when Her Grace were alive. She’s a widow to boot. Where else can she go but to family?”

  “Where else, indeed?”

  The gentleman took a sip of his ale, and John had the passing thought he looked out of place with his Town clothes, his Town gig, and his Town airs. The Lion and Cock was a posting inn, true, but the humblest variety of the species.

  “So there we were,” John said, “the team a-cantering along, and I look down and see the front wheel wobblin’ on its pins.”

  “But nobody came to any harm. Quel dommage.”

  John caught the impatience in the man’s voice. Town fellows weren’t likely to appreciate a well-told story.

  “Thanks be to Almighty God.” John banged his tankard for emphasis. “An’ out come her ladyship, calm as you please. Told me to send a groom for the wheel, and to put the feed bags on my team.”

  “A cool head, then, for a lady.”

  This didn’t seem to please the gentleman either, but ale wasn’t a gentleman’s drink, so John forgave him his mood.

  “You have that aright. But beg pardon, sir. What did you say your name was?”

  Eleven

  Five days.

  Five days since Christian had held his countess against his naked chest, tasted her sweet kisses, and felt her hands moving over his body with desire. He could hardly credit the memory.

  Helene had never touched him like that, not when he was whole and hale and his mind free of shadows and memories. Not when he was blessed with a younger man’s exuberant erotic responses, not when he was newly wed and honestly trying to forge some sort of friendship with his duchess.

  Before his marriage, there had been women, of course there had been, and he’d enjoyed them and regarded it as his most enjoyable obligation to see that they enjoyed him as well.

  But those had been professionals or bored wives who’d long since met any marital obligations, experienced ladies of the world. They’d liked bedding a lusty young duke, liked being seen on his arm, liked dancing the supper waltz with him.

  He’d been a…sexual trophy, just as for Girard, he’d been a trophy of war. The whole notion made him want to retch.

  “Be there some reason we’re stopping back at Timwood’s so soon, Yer Grace?”

  Hancock’s homely face was a study in impassivity, and Christian couldn’t recall a previous occasion when Hancock had questioned his employer’s directives.

  “I have a reason,” Christian said, putting thoughts of his countess aside. “Timwood breeds those enormous dogs.”

  “Mastiffs,” Hancock said. “As his da and grandda did before him. Best in the shire for tracking, and a fair dog for work too.”

  “And nigh big as ponies. I want one, possibly two.”

  “Two be a mighty lot of dog.”

  “Severn is a lot of house.” While the ladies in that house were diminutive.

  Mrs. Timwood was so overcome at a second visit from “the dook” in two weeks she about quivered herself into an apoplexy. Mr. Timwood, when he understood His Grace was interested in a puppy, lost his deferential air.

  “David, Jenny, go dust up the whelping box and let Duchess know she’s to have visitors.”

  Christian was being announced to a dog. He rather liked the idea. “Your bitch answers to Duchess?”

  Timwood grinned. “Me da named her, and a right duchess she is too. Excellent bloodlines all around, but a sweet nature, for all she’s protective of those pups. Eight of them, there are, four and four, dogs and bitches. Not a fault in the bunch.”

  “To which sire did you breed her?”

  Christian had asked the right question, for Mr. Timwood launched into a diatribe laced with more begats and out-ofs than could be found in a book of the Old Testament. By the time the three men were assailed with the pungent scent of the kennel, Christian was certain the bitch’s lineage went back at least to the Conqueror’s dog, if not to some pup Jesus had played with as a boy.

  “That ’un be the runt,” Timwood said, though the thing wasn’t any smaller than its siblings, that Christian could see. “He’ll be big enough, but he hangs back, see. He’s smarter than the rest, mayhap, waitin’ and seein’ rather than scrabbling away to get to the tit. There’s always another tit, ain’t there, fella? But he’ll not get the attention, the way he is.”

  Timwood scratched the little beast’s ear, then went on to regale Christian with the virtues of the other seven puppies. They were geniuses, according to Timwood, ready to learn to fetch His Grace’s slippers, light his pipe, saddle his horse, and hunt up his dinner. They’d offer protection, companionship, and cut a dash on the street in Town…

  And all the while the runt curled up by himself at the side of Duchess’s roomy whelping box.

  “Who plays with the runt?” Christian asked.

  “This ’un.” Timwood picked up a wriggling ball of puppy. “The dimwit. He’s too good-natured. He’ll work his heart out for ye, but don’t be trusting him to guard the chickens. He’ll cadge a nap when Renard comes by for a visit.”

  The dog hung in Timwood’s big hands, panting happily, looking every bit as stupid as his breeder suggested.

  “I’ll take the runt and the dimwit.”

  A look passed between Hancock and Timwood, the visual manifestation of, “Oh, the Quality!” Christian allowed them their silent communication and scratched a silky puppy ear.

  “Come week’s end, this one would have gone into the rain barrel,” Timwood said, holding up the runt. “And now he’s gone for a dook’s dog. God looks after fools, drunks, and strays, aye? To drown the pup woulda hurt me heart—Missus usually sees to such things—but he’ll have a big mouth to feed once he’s weaned. He’s good-lookin’ enough, though. He’ll do for ya, Dook.”

  Christian accepted the dog, narrowly avoiding having his face bathed by a curious pink tongue.

  “And this one. Stone stupid, he is, but yer not buyin’ him for his brains.” He passed the dimwit to Hancock, who suffered the dog to lick his chin.

  “You’re sure they’re ready to be weaned?” Christian distracted the puppy by letting it sniff his riding glove.

  “We’ve been feedin’ them from the dish for the past week. Duchess is looking a mite peaked, according to the missus. Milk and gravy to start, some juicy bones for their puppy teeth, and soon, any table scraps ye got.”

  Chessie sniffed the puppy, then looked away, as if to indicate he cared not one whit for such a small excuse for a beast. Christian aborted his original plan, which had been to transport the pups in his saddlebags. He settled for holding the thing in one hand and guiding the horse with the other, while Hancock managed similarl
y.

  “Can’t say as I’ve ever ridden with a dog,” Hancock observed.

  “Nor have I. Pay him more than he asks.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “He’ll try to gouge us on general principles, but if he makes a fine profit on the runt and the dimwit from this litter, he might try harder to sell the next runt and dimwit to some preening earl’s son. I might be able to connect him with a London factor for that express purpose.”

  Hancock dodged more chin-licking. “May I ask what you intend to use these beasts for, sir?”

  “Leverage.”

  Thankfully, it was beyond Hancock’s ability to ask His Grace what on earth he meant.

  ***

  “Come, princess.”

  Christian held out his hand to his daughter. They had a routine now. Late morning, after he’d ridden out, after he’d spent several hours with his stewards and his correspondence—and his grooming and penmanship—he went up to the nursery and sprang Lucy from her studies.

  They strolled the garden, examining the flowers now rioting in abundance. They rode out, with Damsel on a leading line, or Lucy up before her papa on Chessie. Twice they’d taken a rod and tackle to the estate’s nearest fishing hole and dropped a line.

  Today, Christian had other plans.

  The best part of these outings was that Lucy insisted Gillian join them, and this spared Christian having to hunt the lady down.

  She’d become a ghost, sending her regrets at meal times, no longer drifting down to the library with her books at night, barely sparing him two words when they passed in the corridors.

  And it killed something in him to see her diminished in any way. She was putting distance between them, salvaging her dignity in the face of what she could only regard as his rejection. So he opened his campaign to preserve their friendship with the most effective weapons he could muster.

  “Come along, Countess.” He held out his left hand to her, while Lucy kited around on his right. “Lucy and I must inspect the stables, lest the lads think they can laze away a pretty summer day.”