The Captive

by Grace Burrowes

  Not ever, because he wasn’t to become her husband, and yet, she sat exactly where he’d left her.

  When Christian returned, he carried a large tray.

  “Come,” he said, setting the tray down on a low table. He dragged two chairs close to the fire and stood behind one, his expression unreadable. “We shall talk, Gillian, Lady Greendale. You shall talk to me, and I shall listen.”

  Lady Greendale. Even hearing her title hurt. “Why?”

  “Because you didn’t even have bloody, bedamned, tame, fucking mice.”

  Whatever she’d expected him to say, it wasn’t that. She crossed the room as much on her dignity as she could manage and took the indicated chair.

  He took the other, poured for them both, and added cream and sugar to hers.

  “Drink it. Don’t just hold it and expect you can wait me out.” His expression was so fierce, Gilly did as he said, and to her surprise, the tea was good.

  Strong and bracing, like the man giving her such a broody perusal.

  “He was doting at first,” she said, without intending to say anything, “or as doting as a pompous old man can be. I did not know what to expect on my wedding night, except for my mother’s admonition that if I submitted quietly, it would be over quickly, and it would hurt only the first time.”

  He clearly didn’t like what he heard; neither did he interrupt her.

  “It hurt rather a lot, and I cried and begged him to stop. He slapped me for it. Repeatedly.” She paused and took a sip of her tea, wanting to recite rather than remember. “I did not at first comprehend what he was about.”

  “Your pain and humiliation aroused him.”

  Six words, but they were so astonishingly accurate Gilly left off staring at her tea.

  “Yes. I did not understand on my wedding night, and not for a long while thereafter, but he couldn’t…he couldn’t finish, and when I cried, and he could become violent, it allowed him to achieve…to reach…”

  “To spend.”

  “Yes, to spend inside my body, or in his own hand. If that happened, he’d beat me for it, say I caused him to waste his seed.”

  “And you put up with this for eight years?”

  “The last few years he wasn’t as apt to try,” she said. “I think the ignominy of not being able to perform even when he raised his hand to me overcame the pleasure he took from the beatings. And he was never…he wasn’t like you.”

  Dark brows drew down fiercely. “In what regard?”

  “He wasn’t…firm. He was soft, until he started whacking at me, and then he’d grow a little firmer, but not like you.” She took another sip of tea and dared glance at Christian again. “I never inspected him closely, if that’s what you’re wondering. I have no idea what his male parts looked like. I didn’t want to know.”

  And yet, she was glad to know what Christian looked like, felt like, tasted like, smelled like.

  “Bloody hell.” He scrubbed a hand over his face and turned a scowling regard on her. His hair was in disarray around his shoulders, his face dark with an inchoate beard, and she could not guess at his reaction. “Didn’t the servants hear you? He must have taken a riding crop to you.”

  “A driving whip, usually, a riding crop sometimes. Greendale chose his moments for the servants’ half days, and the late nights when all were abed. He’d accost me at other times and ask me to speak to him privately.”

  “He’d wake you up from a deep sleep when it pleased him to?”

  She nodded, once. How could Christian know that?

  “And he’d turn up sweet at odd times too,” Christian said, his grip on his teacup appearing perilously tight. “And you’d begin to hope, to think maybe the horror was behind you and things could be different.”

  “Only for the first year or so.”

  “Eight years.” He made the scrubbing motion with his hand again, as if something were getting in his eyes. Then his head came up, and he regarded her with a piercing, blue-eyed stare. “And the servants never heard you, not once?”

  “They did not,” she said, finding her tea was finished. She set the cup on its saucer. “But they guessed. I could hardly move some days for the way he hurt me. He was full of casual tricks too. He’d accidentally step on my slipper when in his riding boots, then apologize for an old man’s clumsiness. He’d kiss my hand and beg my forgiveness.”

  “I am going to be sick.” Christian glanced around the chamber, as if genuinely searching out the chamber pot; then his eyes came back to her. “Your hand, the little finger. Did he do that to you?”

  “My hand?” She brought her left hand up, with the slightly crooked little finger. “I was playing my flute, and he took exception to the noise. Usually, he was careful not to risk injury where an evening gown might reveal it, but he took my hand and held it to the hearthstones, then started beating at it with his cane. He was particularly angry that time, and I wasn’t fast enough.”

  “The tea? You didn’t spill it on yourself, did you?”

  “He spilled it on me, and again apologized very prettily while the footmen looked on.”

  Christian grew silent, his hand propped on his chin, and Gillian felt something inside her going cold with dread. And then when he did speak, his voice was very hard. “You blame yourself for what befell you.”

  “Of course not.” She lifted the teacup to her lips, only to recall it was empty. “Of course I didn’t blame myself. I am not an imbecile.”

  “You were seventeen, and your parents were powerless to help you, so they ignored what they’d done to you for the sake of gaining a title to boast of. By sacrificing you, they kept the familial coffers sufficiently lined that your cousin could snabble a tiara. From me. You were the only one who could have stopped your wedding to Greendale, and you didn’t.”

  He spoke quietly, the same voice she’d heard from him when he was newly back from France, unable to take much sustenance and jumping at any loud noise.

  “You are spouting nonsense, and it isn’t very nice of you, Christian. More tea, if you please.” She passed him the cup and saucer, hoping he’d ignore the way her hand shook.

  He watched the cup and saucer trembling in her hand for a pointed moment, then fixed her a second cup.

  “Then when it was obvious the marriage could not be undone,” he went on as if there’d been no pause, “you were the only one who could have orchestrated your own escape, and you failed to do that as well.”

  “And what purpose would that have served?” she said, staring at her tea. “Anybody I sought aid from would have been bound to return me to Greendale’s care or suffer the King’s justice. My own father, my uncles, they would not help, Helene could not, Marcus could not, not openly. Greendale was careful to ensure I made no friends, and never allowed even the vicar to call on me privately. Greendale read my correspondence, controlled my money—”

  She had to set the teacup down lest she shatter it, and the last thing, the very, very last thing she sought was to indulge in the violence her husband had delighted in.

  “And still, you think you should have found a way,” Christian went on. “Passage to America, a life following the drum, a lady’s companion on some remote Scottish island. You never stopped blaming yourself, and belittling yourself, until you began to believe the things he said about you.”

  She gave up wondering why Christian, of all people, would say such mean things to her, for he spoke only the truth. By the second year, her marriage had become precisely as he’d described it.

  “I came to believe I wasn’t conceiving because I dreaded the prospect,” she said. “To imagine bringing a helpless child into that man’s household. The housekeeper was the one to tell me I was his fourth countess, every one of them as petite as I am, and they’d all despaired of having children too. Something my parents had carefully neglected to tell me.”

 
She made herself tell him the rest of it. “The housekeeper’s admission must have been overheard, for Greendale fired her without a character the next week.”

  “So you stopped even looking for allies,” Christian said, staring at the fire. “You no longer even talked to the mice.”

  What was he going on about with his blessed mice?

  “I prayed for his death. I did not kill him.”

  “You think I’d blame you?” He flicked a glance over her. “Men like Greendale need killing, badly. That his evil will have no representation in the next generation is divine justice, and did you kill him, I’d toast you for it in the streets of London.”

  “And get me hanged by the neck until dead.”

  Because violence begets violence, as surely as cats had kittens and horses foals.

  Her logic silenced him, for of all men, Christian could understand her reasoning.

  She sat in her torn nightgown and robe, trying not to feel chilled, trying not to feel anything, while the stubborn wish that he’d take her in his arms again plagued her badly.

  “You cannot marry me because of what Greendale did to you,” he said at length, something in his tone both angry and weary. “Not yet.”

  “I want to marry you, but I did not want you to see…to know. I contemplated death with affection, Christian, rather than face more years like that, blaming myself. And yet, I did not surrender my power on this earth. My power, my dignity were wrested from me and smashed to bits, while my family and all of Society went merrily on their way and the law applauded. One grew…bewildered.”

  “I understand.”

  She feared those two words were his way of initiating their good-byes, because her bewilderment had come between them, and who knew when she might resolve it?

  Then he did something odd. He slid out of his chair and knelt beside hers. She braced herself, not sure what to expect, for the moment did not call for the dramatics of a parfit gentil knight.

  He slipped his arms around her waist and laid his head in her lap.

  “Your Grace?” He’d done this once before, when he’d first started proposing to her. He burrowed in closer and nuzzled her thigh.

  “Christian?”

  “Hush, love. We can argue more later, but for now, hush. You mustn’t fret, but I cannot leave you alone right now. You have humbled me in ways I never conceived a man could be humbled.”

  “I’ve humbled you?” The useless lump was back in her throat, along with useless, stupid tears. He liked it when she stroked his head, so she did that, over and over again, while the tea grew cold and her heart broke.

  Over and over again.

  Seventeen

  Thanks to a merciful God, the day of Gilly’s awful revelations saw a surprise visit from Devlin St. Just, who was in the neighborhood on a horse-buying mission.

  “I wanted to smash the damned teapot, but she looked so broken,” Christian said. They’d ridden far and wide on Severn property, the day cool enough that the horses were frisky. Christian shared his confidences between brisk canters and gallops over the stiles.

  “Her experience puts your situation in perspective. What will you do?”

  His situation. He was a war hero for silently enduring a few months of Girard’s intermittent abuse, while Gilly remained emotionally imprisoned after eight years of silent torture, for which the law and Society both had guaranteed her tormenter impunity.

  “I will give her time.” He’d give her his hands, his sight, anything, if it would help her regain her sense of worth and joy.

  “You want to give her the rest of your life and all your wealth and consequence,” St. Just said. “She may never get back on the marital horse, so to speak, and you have no sons.”

  “I don’t need sons. I need Gilly.”

  “Have you told her that?”

  “In the King’s English.”

  “Not have you said the words, but have you communicated your need for her?”

  Christian frowned at his friend—for surely, one in whom such confidences could be reposed was a friend—but St. Just wasn’t finished.

  “You’re a duke, wealthy, powerful, reasonably good-looking when you make the effort, and a decorated war hero. She’s a penniless victim of an abusive spouse. What can she possibly have that you need?”

  “Everything.”

  “Gracious, you are smitten. I’m impressed.”

  “With the lady’s charms?”

  “With your courage. You were broken too, and for you to care like this…” St. Just fell silent while his horse danced around some droppings in the road. “You have found the best revenge, my friend.”

  “I was damaged. I was never broken. Girard reminded me of that frequently.” And he’d relished those incessant reminders, though he was sure they’d been intended as taunts. “Gilly has sorted me out and put me back to rights.”

  St. Just looked pained and pointed off toward the village steeple. “Race you.”

  Christian put his spurs to Chessie’s sides and thought he’d have an advantage because he knew the territory. St. Just had ridden dispatch though, and beat him by a length.

  “Your heart wasn’t in the steeplechase,” St. Just said charitably. “And my mount is in better condition than yours. I was planning to head closer to Town before the sun sets, but invite me to spend the night.”

  “So invited,” Christian said, relieved somebody would join him and Gilly for dinner—and St. Just’s mount was a splendid beast. “We’ll dine informally and find you something of mine to wear, though I warn you, embroidery is showing up on my attire in unlikely places.”

  St. Just looked intrigued, necessitating a change in topic. Christian stroked a gloved hand over Chessie’s neck, for the old boy was still heaving a bit. “We caught Lucy singing to her puppies.”

  “Is there a but coming?”

  “But she’s still silent when she knows anybody can hear. Gilly thinks we ought to confront her. I cannot agree.”

  “Why not?”

  “She knows how to speak. She writes great convoluted stories using vocabulary far beyond her years. Her life is made lonely and awkward by her silence, therefore I conclude she does not speak because she cannot.”

  “You didn’t speak. Perhaps she knows this.”

  Why hadn’t this occurred to him? “Just so, I did not speak because it became the only means of remaining alive. Gilly kept a silence of her own, finding it the only refuge for her dignity and self-respect. Some silences we are compelled to keep.”

  St. Just, who likely had a few silences to his name, didn’t argue the point. “She seems a happy child, your Lucy, but I asked Her Grace if she’d ever heard of such a thing, and she hadn’t.”

  “Your stepmother?”

  “She has raised ten children and was unfashionably involved in the process, as was Moreland.”

  “If you learned your sister were married to an abusive old man, would you have left her to the situation?”

  This time, St. Just’s gelding shied at a rabbit scampering across the path, though the rider barely took notice of the creature. “My sister would be on a boat for Denmark or Philadelphia before sunset, with substantial coin in her pocket and papers indicating she was the wife of some late yeoman.”

  How quickly he answered. How blessed his sisters were. “What about the scriptural exhortations?”

  “As far as I know, St. Paul had no wife, nor did the Lord himself.”

  “Interesting viewpoint.”

  “My father’s insight, oddly enough. I wanted to pass along some news to you, though.”

  “We approach the stables, so say on.”

  “I’ve heard rumors in Town regarding Girard.”

  Abruptly, the moment stood out from all the moments of the day, all the moments since leaving that wretched French mountainside. The
angle of the afternoon sunlight on the lake, the chestnut draft team standing nose-to-tail in the nearest paddock, the tune some stableboy whistled as he ambled along a fence row toward the far pastures—they dropped onto Christian’s awareness like ink onto a pure white sheet of vellum.

  “You’ve heard rumors about Robert Girard?” He did not refer to the man as “my” Robert Girard, but with the entitlement of one bent on revenge, Girard belonged to no other.

  “Yes, Robert Girard, late of the garrison at Château de Solvigny.” St. Just leaned over to pat his mount on the neck, fussing the beast’s mane rather than studying Christian’s expression. “He’s supposedly larking about London in anticipation of taking up the management of the St. Clair barony. Of all things, he’s come into an English title. The government’s official position is clemency for veterans of any nationality.”

  Christian halted his horse, as St. Just’s words were growing dim over the roaring in his ears and the pounding in his chest.

  “I thought you’d want to know.”

  “What I want…” Christian spoke again, less softly. “What I need is to kill him.”

  Chessie moved forward without Christian asking it of him.

  St. Just’s expression remained calm. He had, after all, led cavalry charges against the French. “Dueling is considered murder. Given your title and your history, not a magistrate in the realm would prosecute you.”

  Which made no difference whatsoever. Girard was moving about freely in England, not three hours’ ride to the north. His proximity underscored his ability to bring harm to Gilly. “You’d serve as second?”

  “And I’ve at least two brothers who’d do likewise on short notice, if need be, and their discretion is without fault.”

  “Marcus might be offended if I didn’t ask him. He served with us.” And yet, Marcus was best situated to keep Gilly and Lucy safe, too.

  “That is entirely your decision. You have adequate equipment?”

  Christian didn’t see the stable yard, he saw the stone walls of the Château, usually damp, always malodorous. He saw a cat, lying in wait at the base of those walls.