The Captive

by Grace Burrowes

  “Of course they did. I saw things that weren’t there, Gilly. I had no idea if I was dreaming or waking most days. I prayed to any god who might hear me.” He dropped his voice even more. “I tamed the mice so I wasn’t so alone in my cell. I pretended they brought me news. I named them. We had conversations, the mice and I. Sometimes when I was sure I was alone in the darkness, I whispered to them.”

  He dropped his forehead to her nape, the nape he loved to stroke and kiss.

  “You befriended the mice, so you forgive me the murder of my husband?”

  “It isn’t for me to forgive or judge or anything,” he said, relieved she wasn’t questioning him about the mice. “It’s for me to protect you, cherish you, and keep your confidences.”

  As she protected him, cherished him, and kept his confidences—kept his very heart.

  She had no immediate reply, so he held her, his body bowed over hers, while common everyday English sunshine beamed in the windows and a pleasant summer breeze fluttered the lacy curtains.

  “Find out who owns that château now,” she said, laying her cheek on his arm.

  “In God’s name why?”

  “So you can blow the damned thing up and erect a monument to old Wellie on the site, or to good King George, or to the mice.”

  “And you wonder why I must make you my duchess.”

  Sixteen

  Gilly was losing ground to Christian daily, nightly. No matter how she picked fights, argued, resisted, and flounced off, Christian showed her tolerance she didn’t deserve. He’d learned this endless forbearance in France—from that dratted Girard fellow—when Gilly’s dithering should have turned him into a violent lunatic.

  Thank a merciful deity, it had not. She could not have fallen in love with another man prone to violence.

  Her courses arrived, and she was honestly grateful—though a failure to conceive gave her no cause for rejoicing. She’d hoped an indisposed female might be unattractive to Christian, but no. He brought her to his bed, the same as any other night.

  “Put me down,” she said before he’d left her bedroom. “I am indisposed.”

  “By ill humor? This is no impediment to what I have planned for you. For us.”

  “Christian, no.”

  He peered down at her, looking so dear, so bewildered and ducal at the same time, she took pity on him. “I am…enduring a feminine indisposition.”

  “For pity’s sake…” He sat with her on her bed. “No wonder you’ve been such a shrew lately. Poor lamb.” He kissed her temple, and she wanted to smack him.

  “I have not been a shrew.”

  “No, dearest.” He kissed her again, trying not to smile. “Of course you haven’t.”

  She turned her face to his shoulder. “I am not your dearest.”

  “That is rather for me to say. Are you uncomfortable?”

  “You are incorrigible.”

  “Also very understanding of female complaints.” He picked her up and headed for the door. “Will you need anything in particular? A tot of the poppy?”

  “I refuse to answer such questions.” Her face was flaming, but she should have known he’d be like this: forthright, concerned for her, cheerfully willing to demolish anything between them as inconsequential as her privacy or her dignity.

  She’d developed the habit of looking forward to her courses because it meant a week free of her husband’s company. He’d called it a filthy female tendency, a noisome blight resulting from a woman’s failure to conceive and submit to her God-given duty.

  How she had treasured the filthy, noisome blight for eight years.

  “Seriously, love.” Christian bumped his bedroom door closed with his hip. “You must tell me if you’re uncomfortable.” He set her on the bed and crossed the room to lock the door, disappearing momentarily to lock the sitting-room door as well. He came back and set his hands on his hips, studying her.

  “Are you concerned you’ll be untidy on the ducal sheets?”

  “Must you?”

  “My father warned me about this,” he said, advancing on her. “He said women need special understanding at such a time, for they fall prey to odd notions.”

  “Women get odd notions? You steal me from my bed every night, provoke me to nightmares, and you say women get odd notions?”

  “I return you to where you belong,” he said, prowling up to the bed. “To where you want to be, and yes, women get odd notions. You fret that you’re unlovely now.”

  She had to look away. Some misguided female had admitted such a thing to him; he had no other way of gaining such an insight, though Helene would not have had the courage to express such a vulnerable sentiment.

  “You resent the untidiness and wish you were coping with a pregnancy instead,” he went on, sympathy in every syllable. “Carrying a child, for all it leaves you ungainly and puts your life in danger, seems to agree with you ladies. Many of my comrades in arms remarked such a thing.”

  “You talked about childbearing as you waged war?”

  He wasn’t to be diverted. He untied the bows of her dressing gown.

  “Scoot over to your side of the bed,” he said, peeling her out of her robe. “When you are indisposed, comforting you is my privilege.”

  He tossed his dressing gown to the foot of the bed, and, of course, he would comfort her while he wore not one stitch, the way he usually slept. That he would trust her so easily with the sight of his nudity still moved her to ferocious tenderness, and to envy of his confidence.

  “Over.” He waited while she crawled to the middle of the bed, then climbed in after her and spooned himself around her. He propped his chin on her shoulder. “Shall I fetch you a hot-water bottle?”

  He’d soon have her in tears. “And inform the kitchen staff what you’re about?” But he’d do it, and not many men would.

  “You don’t want me to leave you here alone in this bed,” he said. “Not until the covers are all toasty.” His hand settled low on her stomach, resting there until the warmth of it eased Gilly’s ache.

  “Helene said you were a considerate husband. You can move your hand lower.” She showed him.

  “Helene said I was considerate?”

  “She said for all you were a great strapping brute with too good an opinion of yourself, you were considerate in the ways a husband ought to be. Still, she worried about conceiving.”

  “Because our children would be great strapping brutes?” His kissed her nape, the same as he always did. “Helene was not petite—and we won’t speak of her now if it bothers you.”

  Perhaps it bothered him? Gilly laced her fingers with his, because Helene should have been the one to let him know his considerations had been appreciated.

  “Because her mother had very difficult lying-ins, Christian, and did not recover from the birth of Helene’s youngest brother.”

  His hand went still. “She never said. In damned near a decade of marriage, she never mentioned this. Bloody hell, my own wife, and she was afraid for her life.”

  Gilly set his hand away and went up on her elbow to peer at him. The night was cool, so a fire had been lit, and the coals gave off enough light that she could see his face.

  “She knew her duty,” she said. “We talked about it. The family was originally considering offering you me, recall, because I was younger than Helene, and marriage would mean nobody had to pay for my come out. I offered to take you on, before Greendale had put his plans for me to the solicitors, but Helene wanted to be your duchess.”

  “She wanted to be a duchess, anybody’s duchess. All the little girls want to be duchesses.” He was disgruntled, upset even. “Helene gave birth easily, the physician and the midwife assured me of that, both times.”

  Gilly pushed him to his side, which meant pushing at him until he divined her purpose and complied on his own initiative. She hiked
herself up higher on the pillows and spooned herself around him, throwing a leg over his hips and tucking an arm around his waist.

  He took her hand, kissed her knuckles, then flattened her palm over his heart. “Did you want to be my duchess, Gilly, my love?”

  The question was wistful, the endearment devastating.

  “Go to sleep, Christian. You have an appointment with Chesterton shortly after dawn.”

  He rolled onto his back, his expression serious.

  “Marry me, Gillian. Please.” He stroked his hand down the side of her face. “I talk to you, and were you my duchess, you would not suffer in silence over something as frightening as childbed. I’m…not as young as I was when Helene got her hands on me, but I’m not as stupid, either.”

  Young, his euphemism for whole of mind, body, and spirit, innocent of the evils men could perpetrate on each other, ignorant of war, murder, and torture.

  I talk to you…

  “Rub my back for a bit?”

  He held his palm against her jaw and looked like he might for once pick a fight with her instead of the other way round. Then his lips quirked up.

  “If you’re asking for comfort from me, then you must be abjectly miserable, poor thing.” He rolled to his side and tucked her into the curve of his body, his hand making slow, easy caresses low on her back.

  And despite how his touch eased her aches and relaxed her closer to sleep, Gilly was indeed abjectly, utterly miserable too. He might talk to her, but by no means was she doing a proper job of talking to him.

  ***

  Christian’s countess fell asleep easily, which was reassuring. She admitted by night that they should be together bodily, but resisted by day what he was coming to conclude was the only course: they must marry.

  He loved her, though how and why this had come about, he could not exactly pinpoint. Something to do with peeled oranges, soft kisses, black silk, and a rather ruthless approach to gardening. He sensed, though, that announcing his feelings would drive Gilly away, hurt her, or maybe frighten her.

  He talked to her, and she listened. She did not talk to him, not about what mattered.

  Not about her marriage.

  Not about how desperately she wanted children.

  Not about her feelings for him.

  Something haunted her blue eyes; something kept her willingness to trust under tight rein and thwarted Christian’s efforts to woo her.

  So he loved her instead, with his body, with his patience, with his consideration, and with his mind.

  When she woke before dawn, he let her slip out of bed. She didn’t leave his room, but rather, went behind the privacy screen, made use of his tooth powder, and came back to join him in the bed thereafter.

  “I know you’re awake, Mercia. Your expression is too angelic.”

  “I am your angel,” he said, not opening his eyes. “Get over here and let me keep you warm.”

  “When did you acquire such an affectionate nature?”

  He flipped the covers up for her and considered her question. “In France, maybe. Maybe it was always latent and wanted only the right countess to come along and bring it out.”

  “You’re affectionate with Lucy, too, and with your horse and those puppies.”

  “They won’t be puppies for long. I’m glad you allow me to be affectionate, Countess. Have I told you that?”

  “You tell me, though not with words.”

  He liked that reply, liked that she didn’t make it a point of honor to chide him for it, or to pretend she merely tolerated his attentions. She curled up against him easily, their bodies having grown familiar with each other.

  “How do you feel this morning?” he asked, sliding a hand over her tummy.

  “Somewhat rested. What have you planned for this day?”

  “I was considering riding over to Greendale,” he said, rubbing his chin over her crown. “Marcus has been in residence for some weeks, and I’ve yet to pay a call.”

  “He’s your heir, shouldn’t he call on you?”

  Did she fear Christian’s absence, even for a day? “We’ve corresponded. Your departed spouse left his estate in disarray, so unwilling was he to part with coin before the last needful moment.”

  “He was a cheese-paring, nip-farthing old penny-pincher.” She never used one insult when three would do for her late husband. Had a bit of the gunnery sergeant about her, did his Gilly.

  “Thus Marcus is up to his ears in squabbling tenants, sagging fences, and weedy crops. One wonders why the man didn’t put his foot down with the old earl prior to this.”

  “Because the old earl had a wicked temper,” Gilly said, trailing off into a yawn. “He was not beyond leaving all his personal wealth to charity should Marcus defy him or cross him or disrespect him.”

  “In which case, Marcus would not have been able to sell his commission, but would have become an absentee landlord to a neglected estate, thus ensuring the misery of all. Tell me again you didn’t poison your spouse.”

  “I did not poison my spouse.”

  He laid his cheek against her breast. “You thought of it.”

  “Many, many times.”

  “I do understand, you know.”

  “You couldn’t possibly.”

  Her hand drifted in his hair, and he closed his eyes, for having his scalp rubbed was a guilty pleasure. Gilly was astute about how he liked to be touched, or maybe he craved any contact with her on any terms.

  “Marry me, Gillian. Please.”

  “Stop it.” She left off petting his hair and struggled toward the edge of the bed. “Your constant importuning is not attractive, Your Grace, and I am considering your offer as seriously as I can.”

  “Referring to me as Your Grace is also not attractive, not from you, not when we’re private. Come back to bed.”

  That merited not even a glance. She flounced about the room—petite women had a way with a flounce—looking for the wool stockings he insisted she borrow, no doubt intent as always on leaving him before the chambermaids came to poke up the fire and bring the morning tea.

  “They’re under the vanity.”

  A halfhearted glare, and she went down on her hands and knees to retrieve the errant stockings. Christian worked himself to the edge of the bed, enjoying the show and trying not to think of ways he might enjoy her in such a pose.

  Gilly was modest, even in bed, always keeping her nightgown on until the candles were out. Though he’d shown her a variety of sexual positions, she’d balked at getting on her knees before him, claiming it wanted dignity.

  As if…

  “Ouch.” She muttered it and went still, half under the vanity, half not, and then she moved, and the fine linen of her nightgown ripped.

  “Don’t move, love. You’ve probably caught the thing on a nail, for which somebody will pay.”

  “Don’t…” She backed out, stockings in hand, but succeeded only in tearing her nightgown the length of her back and starting a thin red welt up near one shoulder.

  “Let me help you up, Countess, lest I get naughty ideas while you linger in a very fetching position.” He ambled over to her and couldn’t help peering at the strip of pale flesh revealed from her shoulder blade to the small of her back. In all their lovemaking and disporting, he’d yet to see her—

  “Gillian?” He stared at her back, and she quickly sat up on her heels.

  “Don’t look.” She tried to gather the nightgown closed around her throat, which only had the effect of parting it farther where it had torn at the back. He looked more closely even as she continued speaking. “You mustn’t…Christian, please. Don’t look.”

  Scars writhed over her skin, thin white lines, some pink, a few of a brighter hue. They grew denser closer to her buttocks.

  “Gilly,” he kept his voice steady with effort, “love, what
happened to you?”

  “Don’t look!” She scrambled to her feet, but he manacled her wrist in his hand when she would have bolted from the room. “You must not…please…you must not.”

  He wrapped his arms around her, rather than distress her with further inspection. “Who did this to you?”

  She shook her head, her face pressed to his bare chest, her mouth open as her body began to shake.

  “You’ve been hiding this,” he said, cradling her against him. “You’ve been careful, haven’t you, to keep me from seeing you?”

  A soft sob escaped.

  He marveled that his voice even functioned, because he wanted to scream, to do violence in her name, to whip somebody as hard and as often as they’d gone after her, and then harder still.

  “Was it your father? You said he was stern.”

  She shook her head, crying audibly now, the sound terrible and raw.

  “Tell me.” He gathered her close, his hands tracing the disfigured patterns on her flesh. “Please, love, you must say who did this.”

  “My husband. My husband did this to me.”

  ***

  Christian’s hands stilled on her back, and Gilly wished she could retrieve the words. For years, she’d held her head up on the strength of the knowledge that her situation had been between her and Greendale only. The servants had likely guessed—Gilly had needed some time to learn to fight Greendale in silence—but they hadn’t known.

  Her parents had known, but they’d chosen denial as the better course, leaving her at the age of seventeen in the hands of a monster.

  Helene had suspected, and welcomed Gilly as a frequent visitor in recent years as a result, but Helene hadn’t known either, not for a certainty.

  “Stay here.” Christian’s arms dropped away, and he grabbed up his dressing gown and left the room. In his absence, Gilly found her night rail and donned it over the ruined nightgown.

  Would she ever see this bedroom again? Duchesses were not an old man’s widowed whipping post.

  As minutes ticked by, it occurred to her she didn’t have to do as Christian said.