The Captive

by Grace Burrowes

  “You don’t ask if I have adequate skill,” Christian said, satisfaction and anticipation twining through him in a peculiar combination of glee and dread, much like the sentiments of Wellington’s infantry when approaching the end of a siege.

  “Girard was not reputed to have any skill with a sword,” St. Just said, “and the French pride themselves on such things. He’ll choose pistols, likely, and you have time to perfect your aim, though you were accounted an excellent shot.”

  “I was good,” Christian said, drawing Chessie to a halt. “I was quite good before Girard’s men mangled my better hand.”

  “So practice. I will leave you my various directions as I travel about.”

  Neither man moved to dismount, and the stableboys must have sensed something of the discussion, for they lingered nearby without intruding. “You’re not settled at the Moreland family seat?”

  “I stay in the country, mostly, but make my obeisance before the family as needed. Moreland wreaks havoc in the lives of his legitimate offspring, and torments his heir incessantly regarding the succession. How Westhaven deals with it is beyond me.”

  “You’re always welcome here.”

  St. Just swung off his horse, ran up the left stirrup, and loosened the beast’s girth. “One anticipated such graciousness, hence the present imposition.”

  Christian dismounted as well, prepared to get particulars from St. Just regarding the source of his rumor, when a thought intruded.

  “You haven’t badgered me about my report.” And St. Just had barely mentioned it on his last visit, though Christian had every sense St. Just’s superiors wanted the document badly—nosy blighters.

  “Nor shall I badger you.”

  “I’ve written it. I haven’t parted with it.”

  They fell silent until the stableboys led the horses away.

  “You will,” St. Just said, “when you’re ready. If you do go up to Town, you need to know you’ve acquired a nom de guerre or two. They’re calling you the unbreakable duke and the silent duke, also the quiet duke.”

  “I appreciate the warnings.” All of the warnings. He turned toward the house, where his unbreakable, silent, and quiet Gilly waited. “And those appellations are rather an improvement over being the lost duke.”

  ***

  Gilly was grateful to Devlin St. Just for keeping Christian occupied for the afternoon, grateful to him for providing most of the conversation at dinner, and yet still more grateful that the colonel offered to take his host off for a brandy in the library.

  “Gilly, are you headed upstairs?” Christian addressed her as Gilly, not Countess, which should have been some reassurance, but she hadn’t been able to get her bearings with him all day.

  “I thought to make an early night of it.”

  His gaze moved over her, and she wished he didn’t have such intimate knowledge of her bodily cycles.

  Or her past.

  Or her heart.

  “St. Just, you will pour me a drink while I light the lady up to her chamber.”

  St. Just, the wretch, merely offered her a good-night bow.

  Christian waited until they’d reached the first landing to start his interrogation, though of course a simple question would have been too direct.

  “You look tired, Gillian, but then you did not sleep well last night.”

  “Perhaps I’d better remain in my own bed tonight.”

  The words were out, unplanned, but she didn’t want him to be the one to make the awkward excuses. Her disclosures had changed things, allowed doubts and despairs to break free that she’d spent months walling up, brick by brick.

  “Do you forget somebody has tried three times to kill you?” Christian moved along at her side, his voice holding a thread of steel.

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” Gilly said. “I’ve concluded it was merely a batch of meadow tea gone wrong. Somebody thought they were picking mint and pulled up a noxious weed. And as for the other, wheels come loose, leather breaks.”

  “Meadow tea is not served in my household above stairs,” Christian said with painful gentleness. “And it did not taste like meadow tea. That was a strong black tea, the household blend, Gilly, sweetened no doubt to cover the taste of poison.”

  She’d known he’d say that, but hearing the words put her anxiety that much closer to out of control. At least in Greendale’s household, she’d known exactly who her enemy was, and that his malevolence had predated her marriage to him.

  “I would ask you to use my bed,” he said, “and have done with this farce we endure nightly, carting you about from room to room, but you will not oblige me.”

  “So you’ll let me have some solitude tonight?”

  “You crave solitude?”

  She craved him, and she craved an innocence so far lost to her, nothing would resurrect it. “I am tired.”

  “Then, my love, you must find your bed.” He stopped outside her door, pushed it open, and peered in to see the candles and the fire had been lit. He stepped aside to let her pass then followed her in.

  And that was a relief, that he’d still presume to that degree.

  He sat on the bed while Gilly went to the vanity and began to take down her hair.

  “No matter what I say to you right now,” he mused, “it won’t come out right.”

  “Say it anyway,” she rejoined, using the mirror to appreciate the picture he made at ease on her bed. “You talk to me, remember?” And how she loved him for that.

  He lounged back on his elbows, a great, lean, ducal beast of a man with far too much patience.

  “You think things have changed between us because I know what a hell your marriage was, and you’re right: things have changed. I can’t view you the same way.”

  She bent her head, as if to locate her brush, but all she really wanted was to hide her eyes and weep, for with his changed view, her own view of herself dimmed too.

  “I never wanted you to know. I never wanted anybody to know. That was my one victory, you see.”

  “You wanted to keep your silence, because you believe your experiences have disfigured you on the inside as Greendale tried to on the outside.”

  Greendale had tried and succeeded.

  Gilly stared at boar bristles and wood, the same hairbrush she’d taken with her from the schoolroom to her marriage, for Greendale begrudged her even so small a thing as a brush.

  “I can’t stand the sight of a buggy whip or a riding crop, and can’t use them myself. I’m always nervous serving tea to guests, afraid somebody will be burned. I hate the smell of burning tobacco, and I can’t abide the thought of sleeping with the bedroom door unlocked.”

  His expression in the shadows behind her was tired and thoughtful.

  “Go to sleep,” he said. “You’ve trusted me with only the start of a very long list of transgressions Greendale perpetrated during your marriage. If St. Just were not here, I’d be brushing your hair, did you allow it, while you told me more of the abominations you’d rather not acknowledge.”

  “I’d allow it.”

  She offered the words as an olive branch, a small reassurance that though things between them might be changing, her regard for him was constant.

  “You should know of my plans,” he said, picking up the candle from the mantel. “I might have to go up to Town in the next weeks, though not for any great length of time. If I do go, I’ll ask Marcus to bide here temporarily.”

  She nodded, because he was right: the chances of meadow tea poisoning a large man nigh to death were miniscule, and Marcus was a battle-hardened officer, the same as Christian.

  “Lucy will be glad of a visitor,” she said, “and I haven’t seen Marcus myself since his last leave.”

  Christian held the candle low, so his features were cast in flickering shadow. “You know I care for you, G
illian.”

  He made no move to approach her, to kiss her good night, to take her in his arms. Gilly sat at her vanity and pulled pins from her hair, when she wanted to pitch herself against him and cling to him with everything in her.

  “And I care for you.” She could say it now, now when his proposal was no longer under discussion.

  He left, and Gilly was crying even as she fastened the lock on the door latch. She did as he’d suggested and took herself to bed, cuddling up to the pillow on the side of the bed he’d vacated.

  ***

  Christian saw his guest to bed late, because they’d started comparing notes and reminiscing about various battles and generals they’d both served under. Eventually, he realized that St. Just had as much trouble sleeping as the next veteran of the Peninsula.

  Then too, Christian was procrastinating. He had no intention of sleeping alone, not tonight of all nights, not with Gilly’s disclosures so fresh in his mind and her behavior so dauntingly distant.

  But he thought back to his first weeks and months after leaving French hands. He’d been barely human, and he’d suffered no more than she. Physically, Girard’s tortures hadn’t been the worst humanity had devised, nor had they been applied all that frequently.

  The worst brutality had been mental, the uncertainty from day to day regarding his fate, the tantalizing hints of hope and decent treatment followed by days of neglect or worse. Then too, the sense of having been so easily forgotten by his fellows had demoralized him. But what was that compared to Gilly’s situation, which her own parents had fashioned for her and the law declared her legally bound fate?

  Having been only recently freed from her marriage, still she’d bestirred herself to bring Lucy’s situation to Christian’s attention, to demand that he be responsible toward his daughter.

  He checked on Lucy and found her sleeping peacefully, two growing puppies snuggled in beside her, then repaired to his own room where he peeled out of his clothes, washed away the dust of the day, and turned down the bed. Wearing only a dressing gown, he crossed the hallway, unlocked Gilly’s door the same as he had every night, and lifted her into his arms.

  “Christian?”

  “Of course it’s Christian. If St. Just has taken to poaching, I’ll meet him over the weapon of his choice.”

  She blinked up at him then closed her eyes. “My indisposition is yet upon me, and you will not even jest about wreaking violence on a fellow soldier.”

  Had she been fully awake, she’d have kept more of that chilly distance. Half-asleep, she had some trust in him, and that was encouraging—also sweet.

  “I sleep better when I’m certain you’re safe.”

  That was the extent of their discussion, and he was grateful for the silence. Better that she get her rest than that they waste their breath arguing. In sleep, she curled up against him easily and rubbed her cheek against his chest.

  In sleep, she let him hold her and laced her fingers through his. She let him comfort her when the nightmares came.

  He prayed it was only a matter of time before she allowed him to face her waking dragons with her as well.

  ***

  “Of course I’ll stay an extra day,” St. Just said, keeping his voice down, though he and Christian stood outside the breakfast parlor. “Is it wise to abandon your lady now, given recent developments?”

  “I’m not abandoning her,” Christian said. “I’m following her example.”

  “Which would be?”

  “Let’s eat while we talk. We’ll have more privacy.”

  Christian waved the footmen off, served himself and his guest, and took his place at the head of the table.

  “You were off your feed when first we met,” St. Just said. “Matters seem to have righted themselves.”

  Christian’s plate bore thick slabs of fragrant, crispy bacon, a mountain of eggs, and two pieces of toast lacking crusts.

  “I am on the mend largely thanks to the countess.” Who was still abed in the ducal chamber, because Christian hadn’t had the heart to return her to her own rooms in the cold, gray predawn light. “When I was in such bad shape, her approach was to insist on a normal routine. She made me sleep at night and face the days, made me deal with my daughter, made me eat what I could. She brought me back to life.”

  “You brought yourself back to life,” St. Just said, tucking into his eggs. “These are good. You don’t spare the cream.”

  “Cook personally prepares anything coming to the table now. Not only are we safer, we eat like royalty. You’ll want butter on that toast.” Christian slid the butter dish over to his guest, because whatever St. Just did not put on his toast, Christian would put on his.

  The prospect of dealing with Girard hummed through Christian with a violent joy, sharpened his every sense, and gave the day an edge of anticipation. And yet, a part of him also fretted over Gilly and wished he’d been free to tarry with her above stairs.

  “Have you made any progress determining who the countess’s malefactor could be?”

  “In my nightmares, I imagine the French are behind this danger to Gilly. Girard could describe the land around here as if he’d walked it himself.” Though preying upon a noncombatant departed from the curious code of honor Girard had held himself to throughout Christian’s captivity.

  St. Just used exactly half the butter on his toast then nudged the remainder closer to Christian’s elbow. “Would Girard have failed on three consecutive attempts?”

  The question inspired a pause. Christian’s knife, holding a fat dollop of butter, poised over his toast.

  “He would not, though Anduvoir might. Do we know where Anduvoir is?”

  “I can find out.” St. Just’s tone suggested Anduvoir had best be halfway to Russia.

  “The theory that Girard is harassing me through Gilly has another problem,” Christian said, resenting the demands of logic when the pleasure of violence called loudly.

  St. Just made a circle with his fork while he chewed a mouthful of ham.

  “Girard was canny. One wants to attribute to the enemy every fault ever exhibited by humankind—stupidity, vulgarity, mendacity—and yet, he was none of those things. We are at long last at peace, and Girard would have no motive for antagonizing me now, particularly if, as you say, he’s turned up with an English barony around his neck.”

  St. Just poured himself more tea and topped off Christian’s cup, as if they’d been in the officers’ mess sharing their daily ration of beef, potatoes, and gossip.

  “Given how many English peers Girard has mistreated, that barony will likely have the same result as a target on his back,” St. Just observed. “Girard might live longer if he found his way to Cathay, but not by much.”

  Abruptly, Christian’s hearty, satisfying English breakfast lost its appeal. St. Just implied somebody would call Girard out before Christian had the chance. He pushed a forkful of eggs around on his plate, eggs that would have made him weep had he been served them in France.

  “I have reason enough to wish Girard biding in hell, but with respect to Gilly’s troubles, the kitchen maid we suspect of poisoning the tea hailed from over near Greendale and had worked at the local posting inn there. Gilly has suggested the woman was one of Greendale’s castoffs. He was not at all faithful to his vows, and he let Gilly know it.”

  St. Just took a tactful sip of his tea. “So you’re off to pay your condolences to Greendale’s heir?”

  “My heir too,” Christian said. “At least for a time. Easterbrook has his hands full, what with the condition Greendale was left in.”

  “The manse is falling down about his ears?”

  “The house itself is in fine shape, but every outbuilding and tenant farm is in precarious condition. Gilly was willing to stay with Lucy and me initially because the Greendale dower house is in such poor repair.”

  “Will
Easterbr—Greendale set it to rights?”

  “I doubt it, not for some time. And I’ll lock the woman in a tower before I let her leave my protection.”

  “Make a captive of her, will you?” St. Just reached for his tea as Christian’s balled-up serviette flew across the table at him.

  “Not subtle, St. Just.”

  “Subtlety has never been my strong suit. Too many years soldiering. Too many younger siblings. Too many imbroglios with dear Papa, His Grace, the Duke of Stubbornness, and his bride, the Duchess of Now See Here, Young Man. How do you get the butter so light?”

  “It’s a mystery. Cook is fifteen stone if she’s an ounce, but she has the best hand with the cream. Then too, she knows we’ve your company again. She’s likely smitten with you or your appetites.”

  “Get you to your horse, Mercia, before I’m forced to improve your manners with a round of fisticuffs.”

  “You aren’t riding out with him?” Gilly stood in the doorway, looking freshly scrubbed and braided, also tired. She’d had a restless night, seeming to need Christian’s arms around her to sleep at all.

  “Good morning, Countess.” St. Just was on his feet before she’d taken a step.

  “My lady.” Christian rose to hold her customary chair at his left. “Good morning. I’m off to pay a call, and St. Just has agreed to bear you company for the day.”

  She visually assessed the colonel, not with any warmth. “Don’t feel you must stay with me. I can make do with George and John.”

  Oh, delightful. They would start the day quarreling. Though her pugnacity was, in its way, reassuring—probably to them both.

  “Would you like your usual fare, Countess?” Christian stood by the sideboard, an empty plate in his hand.

  “Please, and I’d like to know where you’re off to if Colonel St. Just must be left with my care.”

  “To Greendale. Marcus has been in residence for several weeks, we’ve traded the requisite correspondence, it’s time to pay a call, and St. Just’s presence means you need not come with me—unless you’d like to? We can have the coach brought around for you.”

  He kept his tone casual and busied himself preparing her plate, but he wanted her to choose his company over another day at Severn, particularly a day in St. Just’s handsome and charming company.