The Captive

by Grace Burrowes

  Lying to Gillian was beyond unthinkable. And yet, what did Christian say to her, the woman who’d saved his soul if not his body?

  Nothing of any consequence, that’s what.

  “You and Lucy can miss me together.”

  Silence, the most trenchant, impenetrable silence Christian had encountered. He remained poised over the woman he loved, and quite honestly babbled, because he admitted the possibility—slim, but more than theoretical—that Gilly and Lucy could have a lifetime to miss him.

  “The sad truth is, Lucy will never learn to trust that I’m always coming back to her if I don’t occasionally depart for a few days.” His lips, all of their own volition, wandered to Gilly’s mouth.

  And she accepted his kisses, which was a mercy, because it occurred to him only now—now when he was once again doing business with death—that these might be the last kisses he’d ever give her.

  “Shall I love you like this, my lady?”

  She brought her knees up on either side of his flanks, as close to an invitation as he could hope for from her.

  “I think I shall.” He dug deep and found reserves of patience sufficient to pleasure her more slowly than he had before. She became pliant in his arms and gradually began to move under him. When her kisses turned voracious, he pressed himself into her, slowly, slowly.

  “Say you’ll miss me, Gilly.” He went still inside her, though restraint tormented him sorely.

  “Don’t go. It isn’t right that you go, not this time. You won’t talk to me, Christian, and I need you to talk to me.”

  He’d lose her if he admitted the violence of his errand, if he admitted to any characteristic in common with her late, vicious husband. He’d lose her if she learned he’d been untruthful.

  “Are you afraid I won’t come back to you?” He brushed a lock of hair off her forehead. “Afraid I’ll be distracted by the noise and frivolity of Town?”

  She closed her eyes and snugged her body closer to his. “You’re up to something, Christian. I can feel it. I’m worried for you, and you won’t tell—”

  “Feel this.” He pressed forward by excruciating degrees, then withdrew at the same tempo almost to the point of leaving her body.

  “Tell me…why you…must…” she said, but he advanced again, and her voice trailed off.

  He wanted to confide in her, wanted to have no secrets, no silences between them, ever, but some truths were too costly.

  “I will tell you I love you,” he said, lacing his fingers with hers on the pillow and setting up a gloriously languorous rhythm. “I love you as I’ve never loved another, as I never will love another.”

  “Oh, God…Christian.” She bowed up, her face against his shoulder, and control slipped from her grasp. He wasn’t expecting passion to overtake her so soon, and he lost the battle to draw out his own pleasure. As he went over the edge with her, all he could think was: I love you. I love you. I will always love you.

  He didn’t know he’d made that declaration aloud until silence fell in the aftermath of their loving. Then he realized that come morning, he was the one who’d be leaving, but tonight, Gilly might be the one making her farewell.

  ***

  The day unfolded as His Grace had predicted, which ought not to have surprised or disappointed Gilly, though it did both. They rose and parted as they always did, despite her sense that he would have made love to her again if she’d shown the least receptivity.

  The duke had devastated her the previous night with his soft, repeated declarations—and with his silence. He’d known exactly what he was about, too, embracing her when they were both spent and whispering vague apologies as if he regretted his infernal business.

  Christian had once told her that his captor, the thrice-damned Girard, had also offered apologies.

  “Good morning, my dear.” He kissed her cheek as he made his way to the sideboard in the breakfast parlor. “Were you waiting for me?”

  “Enjoying my first cup of tea in peace and quiet.”

  “You may enjoy it more now for having delightful company.” He paused, plate in hand. “Shall I dish you up some eggs?”

  “Toast will do, thank you.”

  He passed her a plate bearing four toast points, then helped himself to at least six eggs’ worth of omelet, two pieces of toast, and a half-dozen strips of bacon.

  A far cry from half a buttered scone and nursery tea.

  “When will you leave?” Gilly tried to put the question evenly, but her voice caught.

  “I expect Marcus here by midmorning,” he said, flourishing his white linen serviette. “I should not be gone outside of a few days, a week at most. The drama you and Lucy have subjected me to would be flattering were it not so inconvenient.”

  She buttered her toast, wondering if he’d consider a bullet hole in his boot inconvenient. Her own reactions made no sense to her. She wanted him to stay, and she wanted to quit Severn herself, to be free of the kindness and patience in his eyes, the pity. He’d turned a deaf ear on her pleas regarding Marcus, and he’d all but lied about his reasons for going up to Town.

  “I will keep a close eye on Lucy,” she said. “I swear the girl was almost upset enough to speak yesterday, but then it occurred to me Marcus was here on leave when Evan was so ill and Helene died.”

  The realization made her toast stick in her throat, because what might the sight of Marcus do to Lucy, who’d ceased speaking from the time of the man’s last visit?

  Christian’s expression went from pained to resolute. “Perhaps the sight of me returning from Town will move her to speak. Would you like more tea?”

  She let him top up her cup, let him blather away about the weather and the coming harvest and about the team he’d have hitched up for the trip to Town. He was doing the ducal equivalent of chattering, as she used to chatter at him, except his effort was the more effective distraction when she could not ignore even the sound of his voice.

  Marcus arrived on schedule, declaring himself glad to be useful to his nearest family, and Gilly’s sense of disquiet rose higher.

  Marcus might have been useful to Gilly on any number of occasions—by inviting Greendale up to Town, by finding a moment alone to ask her if she was moving so stiffly for a reason, by insisting the dower house at least have a decent roof.

  None of which explained her current unease. Had she grown so dependent on Christian that she was afraid to part from him? This boded ill, because she could not marry a man who kept secrets from the woman he professed to love.

  “Marcus,” Christian said, perhaps knowing Gilly didn’t want to hear even the Greendale title, “I will leave you to the comforts of the library while the countess sees me to the stables. I have instructions for her regarding Lucy’s studies in my absence.”

  Marcus sketched Gilly a bow. “I will spare myself the tedium. Studies were never of much appeal to me.”

  He departed, boot heels ringing on the polished floors in a way that set Gilly’s teeth on edge because the cadence reminded her too strongly of Greendale.

  Leaving Gilly to accept Christian’s proffered arm. Before Marcus, Christian had been punctiliously polite with her, a bit of argument by demonstration.

  Christian would treat her that well, were she his duchess. He’d never remonstrate with her before others, never fail to show her the utmost courtesy, never allow her to suffer insult from another.

  But she’d have to marry him to be his duchess.

  “You are quiet, my dear,” he said as they made their way through the gardens. “This does not bode well for the King’s peace.”

  “For yours, you mean? What is there to say, Christian? You are off on this mysterious errand, which you refer to as simply business, but I believe nothing about it is simple. Have you been summoned back to Carlton House? Or is it a command performance at the Horse Guards?”

 
“Neither. This business is of a personal nature, affecting only me. You must not concern yourself.”

  “Must I not?”

  They reached the stable yard, and Christian signaled the grooms that he was ready for his curricle.

  “I meant what I said at the house.” He slipped his arms around her waist. “Please take extra care with Lucy while I’m gone. She will fret and worry and need your common sense and cheerful company.”

  “She’ll have it.”

  “And I need to know you won’t decamp in my absence.”

  His arm tightened fractionally, or Gilly would have withdrawn at least far enough to see his face. In profile, he looked more stern than usual, which only increased Gilly’s sense of anxiety.

  “You think I’d leave Lucy alone when she was so adamant she did not want Marcus here?”

  “She was adamant I not go away,” Christian said, peering at her.

  “She was happy to discuss your trip with you in her fashion until you mentioned that Cousin Marcus would be coming to stay in your absence. Then and only then did she become cross…and disconsolate. This morning she was withdrawn again, barely acknowledging our visit.”

  “Helene was prone to the same moodiness,” he said, stepping away and tugging on his driving gloves. “Lucy will be gamboling with her puppies before I’m gone an hour. Now, this has been an enlightening digression, Countess, but I asked for specific reassurances from you, and I’ve yet to hear them.”

  He rested his hands on her shoulders. “Promise me you won’t leave in my absence. I want to hear the words, Gilly, and you will look me in the eye when you say them.”

  If Christian was this worried that she’d leave him, he must be up to something very bad, indeed. “Damn you, sir. I was waiting for your next proposal.”

  He smiled a crooked, sad, and slightly smug smile. “I’m waiting for your promise.”

  “I will not depart in your absence unless for some dire emergency, and then I will leave my direction with Harris and Nanny.”

  “A fit of pique is not a dire emergency. Can we agree on that?”

  “We can, else you’ll stand here the livelong day badgering me.”

  She wanted to pick yet another fight, and he was leaving at a time when only something dire ought to take him away. She stepped closer, putting her arms around him for all the stableboys to see—again.

  “You will propose again, won’t you?” she asked now that the moment of parting was upon them. “You needn’t repeat the bended knee part. When whatever is haunting you that requires you to charge off to London is put to rest, I would like to hear another proposal very much.”

  His arms closed around her, and his chin came to rest on her crown.

  “This little business will pass, Gilly, while my feelings for you are constant. You are testing us both and grieving in your fashion and wondering what will become of you now that your enemy is in the ground. The generals always had the worst time controlling their troops when a siege broke and the city had fallen. That’s when the real mayhem ensued, and you and I are no different.”

  “I’m not some pillaging infantryman to express my frustrations with gun and bayonet.” Of that, she was certain.

  “You know a great deal about being besieged, though.”

  He spoke gently and too quietly for anyone else to hear. The words were easy to understand on the surface, but the sense of them went much deeper. She took a breath and let herself feel his arms around her, let her cheek rest against his muscled chest.

  “I’m about to cry.”

  “I know of nobody who has greater justification for tears.”

  She heard the curricle being brought around, and the sound of the wheels rattling against the cobbles struck at her. Christian was truly leaving, and now, now, she clung to him.

  “I want to be angry with you. Angry enough to push away from you.”

  Still, he didn’t turn her loose. “You have every reason to be angry, love.”

  “But not with you.”

  “And I have no excuse for being wroth with every cat I see, but if I find one in my house, I will still be tempted to toss it out the nearest window. That is a small price to pay for walking in the sunshine and being free to love you.”

  “Don’t.” She pressed her fingers to his lips and felt his mouth curve in a smile.

  “We are talking, my love. This is a vast improvement over bickering and silence.”

  “It is, and now you’ll spoil the mood by leaving.”

  “I will be back, and we will resume this discussion. I am aware difficulties lie ahead, Gilly, but I am determined we shall face them together.”

  “By leaving me here and keeping your infernal silence.”

  His smile faded, and she realized not only were they talking, he was listening. This heartened her—and frightened her—more than all of his smiles and promises together.

  “I will be here when you come home, Christian. I can make that promise, but no others.”

  “I’ll sustain myself on that much.” He looked like he wanted to say more, but the leader of his matched team of blacks chose then to stamp a hoof. “I’m off. See to Lucy for me, and I’ll bring her some storybooks from the shops in Town.”

  “Bring yourself.” Gilly kissed him on the mouth and should have known better. His arms closed around her tightly, and what was meant as her parting shot became his closing argument.

  “Be off with you,” she said, settling back on her heels. “Your horses grow impatient.”

  He stepped into his vehicle, took up the reins, saluted with his whip, and tooled the team out of the yard.

  All before Gilly could find the nerve to tell him she loved him too.

  ***

  The proprieties were observed easily, with Christian tracking Girard to one of the newer clubs that very evening. All it took was slapping a sweaty leather riding glove across Girard’s face before many witnesses, including St. Just, who would serve as Christian’s second. Contrary to best practices, the blow carried some force and left the corner of Girard’s mouth bleeding.

  And Christian enjoyed that, making Girard bleed all over his linen while others looked on. He would enjoy killing the man even more, despite the fact that Girard now styled himself Sebastian St. Clair—Sebastian Robert Girard St. Clair—Baron St. Clair.

  “A challenge, then?” Girard rose, pressing his handkerchief to his mouth. “A duel to the death?” He looked Christian up and down. “As you wish, mon duc, and I look forward to matching myself against you now that you’ve had time to recover from your ordeal. War takes such a toll, does it not?”

  Girard was gaunt, and his Gallic panache seemed labored—which wasn’t as gratifying as it ought to have been. Christian wanted to best a worthy and deserving opponent, not put down an ailing dog.

  “Name your second, Girard, and St. Just will call upon him.”

  “My man, Michael Brodie, who dwells with me on Ambrose Court, shall second me. The choice of weapons will be communicated to you. Now, you have interrupted my reading, Your Grace, though your business was understandably pressing. If you will forgive me, I will resume my amusements.”

  Girard turned his back with the virtuosic rudeness of the French, and won points from the onlookers for his sangfroid.

  “Cold bugger,” St. Just muttered as he and Christian gained the street. “One would think he expected you, he left such a clear trail.”

  “He’s thinner,” Christian said. “He’s aged since last I saw him.” And yet, Girard was the same too, dark hair worn fashionably long, green eyes that could convey humor, indifference, and even respect without a word, and a coldness beneath every gesture and word that suggested no human soul had ever inhabited that big, lean body.

  St. Just kicked a loose chip of cobblestone into the gutter. “Now is not an easy time to be a former Fren
ch army officer. What does Lady Greendale make of all this?”

  “You think I’d tell her about a duel, for pity’s sake? Gillian does not look favorably on male flights of violence.” And if she’d loathed Greendale’s vile temper, what would she think of murder?

  Premeditated, scheduled murder, conducted while sober witnesses stood by, ensuring the rules of ritual homicide were punctiliously observed?

  “You and the lady seemed close,” St. Just said, finding another pebble to send skittering to the gutter. “I’m often surprised at what Moreland tells his duchess behind closed doors.”

  “Gilly has enough on her plate, and she is a lady.”

  St. Just held his thoughts until Christian settled beside him in the privacy of the ducal town coach, but only until then.

  “You withheld your plans from the countess to spare her sensibilities, of course, but you also anticipated she would disapprove of you taking another’s life.”

  “Not exactly, but close. She would disapprove, she would worry, and she’s fragile right now.”

  “Interesting word coming from a man who couldn’t find an hour’s respite from his nightmares.”

  “Silence, St. Just. Girard needs to die, and there’s an end to it.”

  St. Just said nothing more on the subject, and really, what more was there to say?

  The next day, when the colonel took himself off to Ambrose Court, Christian traveled to the City to pay a call on one Gervaise Stoneleigh.

  “Your Grace, this is an unexpected pleasure,” Stoneleigh said after offering a perfectly correct bow.

  “Unexpected, I will believe. You will make some time for me regardless?”

  “Lady Greendale would require it of me.”

  “Direct,” Christian said when he’d been shown into a surprisingly elegant office. Potted violets grew on the windowsill, and one wall held framed sketches of a smiling lady with two small, chubby children. “Bluntness saves time, I suppose, but one always expects lawyers to prevaricate on general principles.”

  Stoneleigh nudged a clay pot an inch to the left, so the small, tender green plant sat in direct sunlight.