No fire had been laid in the armory. It was summer, after all, and who in their right mind lingered here?
St. Just held his drink up to a branch of candles, as if light had never done anything more fascinating than shine through an inch of brandy. “What aren’t you saying, Mercia? You’re no damned eunuch.”
Damned, perhaps, nonetheless.
“I am not whole.” The words were out, four little prosaic words, but Christian’s throat promptly closed up, as if to stop any more prosaic words from escaping and mortifying him further. The small crossbow occupied his line of vision; a compulsion to smash it suffused his hands.
Both of his hands.
“You are not…” St. Just’s mouth screwed up in consternation. “I’ve seen your scars, but otherwise…”
In for a penny… St. Just wouldn’t pretend he’d misheard, wouldn’t brush such a disclosure aside, and maybe Christian had known he wouldn’t.
“Girard enjoyed decorating me with scars,” he said, blowing out a breath. “You’ve seen the symmetry of them, front and back, side to side. I bloom with delicate, pink scars, as if I wore a bouquet. At first, it nigh cost me my reason, to know every time his superior officer came around, Girard would cut on me again, slice at my flesh, murmuring sympathy the whole time…”
St. Just swore with soft, Anglo-Saxon intensity.
“But then it became almost a relief, not a pain but a…consolation. His knife was always sharp and clean, and it stung, but it also… I could manage it in silence, without fail, I could manage those messy, interminable sessions in silence. He never cut deeply, never. I soon realized Girard cutting on me was for show, and Girard comprehended my grasp of his agenda.”
Christian’s words were swaddled in the quiet of a big old house late at night, and what was a guest supposed to say to such a disclosure, anyhow?
“I’ve heard the like,” St. Just said, so very calmly. “One of the laundresses had scars.”
Christian had not heard the like, though it was rumored the Regent was far too willing to open a vein, even when the physicians told him he’d been bled enough.
“A woman with scars?”
“On her arms, well above her wrists,” St. Just said, rearranging the knives so they formed not a fan but a circle on their blue velvet. “She wasn’t trying to end her existence, and the other women said she’d long had the habit.”
Christian had not taken a sip of his drink, and neither had St. Just.
The brandy was, after all, French.
And yet, Christian wanted to finish the topic, though it would probably mean he never saw St. Just again.
“Girard sensed his little torment was no longer doing much mental damage to me, if any, but cutting is bloody, dramatic, and impressive to those who witness it. Anduvoir in particular seemed to enjoy those sessions with the knife.”
“Then may Girard and Anduvoir both die a slow, painful, bloody death.” St. Just lifted his glass, a toast to the eventual demise of two Frenchmen who’d been no credit to their nation.
“And roast honestly in hell,” Christian said. “I understand spies are tortured if they’re taken captive out of uniform, but Anduvoir’s interest in me was beyond the natural perversions of war, if there are such things.”
“One understands your meaning.”
St. Just wouldn’t pry. Christian would have to make this confession on main strength.
“Girard occasionally traveled to Toulouse to meet with his superiors. The first time he was gone, the guards thought to extract a confession of treason from me, and damaged my hand in his absence. He was wroth with them for overstepping, to the point that I remained safe in his absence thereafter.”
“No, you did not.” And neither did St. Just look away, play with his drink, or study the ancient, priceless weaponry.
“Girard went on leave again, I know not where, and his immediate superior dropped in on the Château. If Girard was sick, Anduvoir was sicker. He was jealous of the prisoners sent to Girard, but lacked the skill Girard had for keeping us alive while flaying our souls. With not half Girard’s skill with a knife, Anduvoir rendered me…as a Hebrew.”
A few beats of silence, then St. Just’s rapidly indrawn breath. “Almighty, everlasting, merciful, bleeding Christ. He circumcised you?”
Christian nodded, memory abruptly flooding his mind with the scent of his own blood, the horrific burning, the uncertainty…
“I took days to get up the courage to assess the damage, because Anduvoir went about inflicting his mischief piecemeal over the course of what felt like hours… The pain was bearable, but the not knowing exactly where he’d stop, if he’d stop, how to live if he’d gelded me. Girard must have caught wind of what was going on—the entire garrison lived in fear of Girard—because he arrived in a temper and put a stop to matters before Anduvoir could do lasting injury of a more than cosmetic nature.”
Christian had formed the words…“if he gelded me,” but he’d lived the question for the balance of his captivity. Girard had said nothing upon his return, but had sent a physician to ensure the wounds were clean.
And he’d not taken any more leave. What did it say, that Christian had been reassured to know Girard had remained with him, behind the cold stone walls of the Château?
“When I had healed, Girard told me we’d had our last session with the knife. He promised me, no more cutting after that day, and I foolishly felt relief because he’d spared my face. I’d worried about that, which seems nigh hilarious in hindsight. The jailer lied, the corporals lied, Anduvoir habitually lied, but Girard was, in his diabolical way, honest. And why in God’s name am I telling you this?”
St. Just’s scowl was ferocious, but not…not frightening, not frightened, and not disgusted either.
“You’re telling me, so at least one other person on the face of the earth knows what you went through, so you’re not quite as alone in your nightmares and waking terrors. I respect your confidences.”
His hand tightened around his glass, and Christian expected him to stalk from the room. Instead, he muttered gratifyingly vulgar curses involving French commanders and a male donkey.
Then, “I respect you, Mercia. God, do I respect you.”
He finished his drink in a swallow, flicked his gaze over Christian—a fulminating, assessing glance—then hurled his glass directly at a Severn family shield mounted high up on the opposite wall.
Brandy fragrance perfumed the air, and the dregs trickled down the surface of the shield, putting Christian in mind of the blood that had trickled down his legs until the stones beneath his bare feet had been slick with it.
“I’m selling the lot of this,” Christian said, passing his glass to St. Just. “Every knife, bolt, and bow. I want it out of my house.”
“Good,” St. Just said, nodding once, fiercely, then hurling Christian’s glass into the corner of the room with such force, the knight in battered armor went clattering to the carpet.
Twelve
“I wish you could stay longer,” Gilly said. She walked with St. Just in the rose garden while Christian—His Grace—and Lucy gamboled ahead with the puppies.
“My family would not understand did they get wind I was tarrying in Surrey,” St. Just said, “though your household here is a wonderful excuse for tarrying.”
“His Grace has been more animated for having another fellow to racket about with, like the two puppies are more active than one would be. I thought he’d never stop plaguing you last night about your stud farm.”
“As much land as he controls, he’s smart to gather knowledge where he may,” St. Just said, “and support.” He put an emphasis on the last two words, confirming Gilly’s suspicion that the dark-haired colonel had a fine grasp of the subtleties.
“What need has the Duke of Mercia for support?” Gilly paused to pick a nearly blown damask rose, forgetting u
ntil she’d pricked herself that what they boasted in scent, the damasks matched in thorns.
“Allow me.” St. Just produced a folding knife with startling ease, sliced her off a half-dozen pink flowers, and wrapped them in a monogrammed white silk handkerchief. “You know what need he has for support.”
St. Just was a handsome man, in a large, soldierly sort of way, with laughing green eyes many a debutante would envy, though his perception was in excellent working order. Gilly accepted the flowers from his hand, handkerchief and all.
“Mercia is doing much better,” she said. “He’s a great deal stronger, gained flesh, resumed his duties…he’s…”
“Lonely,” St. Just said. “He’s a soldier home from war, and he’s lonely and wondering if he endured all that suffering merely to balance ledgers, count lambs, and swill tea with the parson. I think, Countess, you might be lonely too.”
His words held an unspoken suggestion, and Gilly was abruptly not sorry at all the man was leaving. Yes, he’d distracted Christian from his preoccupation with her, but the cost was apparently these pithy insights from their—His Grace’s—guest.
“Is Lucy lonely as well, do you think?” Gilly put flippancy into the question.
“I have five younger sisters, so I will say yes, I think the child is also lonely, though less so with you and Mercia and the dogs underfoot. You will accept my thanks for your kind hospitality, my lady, and my sincere wishes that your loneliness will soon abate, for you are entitled to your supporters too.”
He bowed over her hand and sauntered off, calling to Lucy to demand a parting boon of her. He scooped the child up, whispered something in her ear, and had her dimpling and smiling the most coy smile Gilly could recall the girl producing.
Being the oldest of ten had indeed informed St. Just’s approach to command.
By the time St. Just put Lucy down, the grooms had brought around his horse, a big roan gelding with a coarse head and a sweet eye. St. Just and Christian walked off a few paces, speaking quietly, while Gilly tried to distract the puppies from sniffing about the horse’s feet.
The men ambled back, St. Just pulling on his gloves, while Christian sent the puppies off in the direction of the folly near the center of the garden. St. Just checked over his saddle and bridle, then grabbed his host in a hug and pounded him twice, hard, on the back.
Christian’s expression was momentarily perplexed, then…bashful, before he returned the blows, and St. Just let him go.
“You know, Mercia,” St. Just said, swinging onto his horse, “the world boasts plenty of Hebrew children, and has for thousands of years.”
This peculiar comment had His Grace’s lips turning up.
“Get ye to Kent,” Christian said, “where your sisters can spank you for such impertinence. If you’re posting back to France by way of Portsmouth, then drop in on us again, please, and mind my letters, Colonel.”
“I will stay in touch. You have my direction. See that you do likewise.”
When St. Just had cantered off, Christian slipped his arm through Gilly’s, and she let him, because saying good-bye to a friend was never easy.
“We’re at peace,” she reminded him. “You’ll see him again.”
“You might be right,” he said, his smile fading.
“What was that comment about Hebrew children?”
The smile came back, brilliant as summer sunshine on the lakes beside the drive.
“It was the truth,” he said, sneaking a kiss to her cheek. “Nothing less than the blessed, simple truth.”
***
St. Just’s visit bore two kinds of fruit, each, in Christian’s view, positive.
First, Christian found his internal view of his captivity shifting. He’d been considering Anduvoir’s work with the knife a shame to be privately borne—proof of capture, of failure—and that was at least half of what prevented him from allowing another to look upon his scars and disfigurements.
In France, St. Just’s reaction to Christian’s limitations had been to polish his weapons, to offer protection to a fellow soldier, not revulsion or judgment.
And in England…St. Just had aimed his revulsion squarely at the French.
Where it should be aimed.
As St. Just had destroyed elegant crystal tumblers, Christian had barely stifled a shout in affirmation of the violence. For with St. Just’s destructiveness came not only the certainty that Christian had been deeply violated, but also a renewed desire for revenge.
Christian should never have doubted either the violation or the entitlement to revenge, but the captive allows himself to be taken, after all—and doubt thus gains the only toehold it needs to assault the prisoner’s self-worth.
And somewhere in these shifts and awakenings came a hope—the thing Christian had become deaf and blind to while a prisoner—that the Countess of Greendale hadn’t been momentarily accessible to him merely out of grief and bodily deprivations.
She’d seen his scars, told him quite baldly he was desirable to her, and acted like a woman susceptible to a man’s advances. Despite the scars she hadn’t yet seen, he could build on that. Encouraging her interest would take time, stealth, and more charm than he’d ever laid claim to, but he could build on it.
His first opportunity came several days after St. Just’s departure, several rainy days of mundane discussions with the countess over breakfast and dinner, unremarkable encounters in the quiet of the nursery, and long evenings lying in wait for her in the library—in vain.
When the sun came out, Christian accosted his quarry as she emerged from the back steps, a piece of paper in her hands.
“Might I hope you’re coming to discuss menus with me?” Christian asked. “It’s Monday, and we last had this discussion a week ago, if memory serves.”
She looked…prim, tidy, and disgruntled, but forcing her to share household decisions was part of his strategy.
“Perhaps if I leave these menus with you—”
He plucked the paper from her hand. “No such luck. I’ll not be chasing you all over the house to suggest we substitute green beans for the braised carrots on Wednesday. Come along.” He tugged her by the wrist—oh, what a pleasure to put his hands on her—and towed her into the library.
“You do favor the garden,” he said, perusing the menus.
“It’s summer, of course I favor the garden, particularly when what Cook prepares is served in the nursery as well.”
“I didn’t know that. I thought children were supposed to be fed only bland foods, bread, pudding, soup, and more pudding.”
“That is old-fashioned thinking, Mercia.” She meandered, spinning the globe, flipping over the pages of the atlas, taking down a book only to put it back.
“You have made a study of child-rearing practices?” For Helene had found the topic of little interest.
“Child-rearing is becoming a popular topic among those with more experience and education than I.” She stopped by a window that had been cracked to let in the scent of the roses bedded beneath it.
“You are restless, my dear. Let’s be truant this afternoon and go for a ride.” He could see by the longing in her eyes she was tempted. “You want to, I want to. The horses want to. Nip into your habit, and I’ll meet you in the stables.”
“Lucy will be jealous if she sees us.”
“Lucy is a child who must serve out her sentence in the schoolroom. Besides, she commanded your exclusive attention for half the morning, while I toiled in solitude over my ledgers.”
Yes, he tracked her schedule, through observation, through the maids, through the footmen, and he thought they all rather abetted him too. He saw the countess’s lips firm in inchoate mulishness, and turned her by the shoulders.
“Shoo,” he said, nudging her between the shoulders. “It’s a beautiful day, and you’ve earned an outing.”
; She went, casting him a curious glance over her shoulder.
Curious was good; it was a start.
As she cantered along beside him on the little mare thirty minutes later, Christian concluded that at some point in her life, Gillian had been a very competent rider. She cued the mare subtly and moved easily with her horse.
“Would you like to hop a few stiles, or stay on the flat today?” he asked.
“This is an ambitious hack for me,” she said, patting the mare. “We usually have Lucy with us, demanding we idle along, unless she’s up before you.”
“I first felt a horse in flight from my perch up before my papa,” Christian said. “The feeling was wonderfully secure, in the saddle with him, but flying over a log. To me, we were topping the hedges at Newmarket, though I’m sure the obstacle wasn’t twelve inches.”
“You have good memories of your childhood?”
“Wonderful, for the most part. You?” He brought Chessie down to the walk, realizing the horse was winded before he was—lovely horse.
Lovely day.
“Not wonderful, not awful. My mother had some mischief in her, but Papa was stern. He contracted marriage for me with Greendale, and that should tell the tale.”
She spoke as if contracting marriage was akin to contracting plague.
“You gained the title Countess of Greendale. Some would call that a successful union.” Though even ten years ago, Christian would not have.
Annoyance, plain as day, crossed her face. “I gained years in the household of a nasty old man. But for his cronies in the Lords, he had no joys, no passions, no light in him. My papa condemned me to darkness. When I came crying home to my mother six weeks after the nuptials, Papa denied me more than a second cup of tea before I was summarily bundled back into my coach, my bags not even unloaded from the boot.”
Her words were bitter, making Christian regret the topic. “When next you choose a husband, you can select a livelier fellow of fewer years.”
“Why would I select another gaoler?” Her expression was still unhappy. “I have my little portion, a place to live for the nonce, and my freedom. You cannot know what that means to me.”
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