The Captive

by Grace Burrowes

  “For two reasons. First, I know what it is to be in dire circumstances, far from home, with no good options. I was a boy when the Peace of Amiens stranded me among my mother’s people in France. My choices were to join the English captives or, eventually, to join the French army—to kill my father’s people or be held prisoner by my mother’s. Delightful options, non? Your choices were no better—treason or torture—and yet you found a way to prevail with your honor intact. I respected your tenacity. I was inspired by it, in fact.”

  Girard spoke softly, much as Christian had weeks ago when Gilly had first barged into the ducal parlor, dreading the confrontation even as she handed a duke of the realm orders.

  And while part of Gilly wanted to drag Christian away from the sunlit clearing, another part of her ached for a boy—not a cavalry officer, a boy—who’d fallen victim to the pervasive injustice of war.

  Girard turned his face up to the sun slanting through the trees. Viewed objectively, he was a handsome man, and, Gilly also admitted—grudgingly—a man who bore the marks of a soul-deep exhaustion.

  “You should also know Anduvoir caused significant awkwardness by capturing a duke who was quite obviously an officer in possession of a uniform,” Girard went on. “And he further humiliated himself by failing to extract any intelligence from you whatsoever. As a consequence, Anduvoir was denied every possible promotion, which prevented him from much foolishness. There is more to it, but your silence saved not only English lives, but French lives; therefore, on the peculiar abacus that passes for my moral reckoning, you were condemned to live.”

  Girard’s manner was patience edged with a detachment that bore a tincture of madness—or perhaps the confessional zeal of a misguided, heathen saint.

  And while Gilly could on an abstract level feel compassion for the wreck war had made of Girard, she had no wish to linger in the man’s presence.

  “The other reason?” Christian asked.

  Girard smiled faintly, a sad, tired caricature of what might have been a charming grin, and somewhere above, a songbird offered the day a silvery, sweet greeting. “You will have your confession of me, eh, Mercia?”

  “I will have the truth.”

  “You are owed that.” Girard regarded the body as he went on speaking, his accent becoming all but undetectable. “We are of an age, Your Grace. Had war not intervened, I would have started at Eton after spending time with my grandparents in France. You and I would have been in the same form, probably belonged to the same clubs, played on the same cricket team. We would have been nearly neighbors, for the St. Clair seat is less than a day’s ride from your own home. One could say your battle was my own, and you fought well enough for both of us.”

  Girard looked away, but not before Gilly caught a hint of self-consciousness in his frown. Or perhaps he was bewildered to be making this confession without benefit of torture, bewildered that Christian would even listen to him.

  As Gilly herself was bewildered to find a man—a flesh-and-blood man, with regrets and scars of his own—behind the beast who’d haunted Christian’s dreams.

  As the bird paused in its serenade to the new day, Stoneleigh spoke up: “This Frenchman has committed murder in peacetime on English soil. Greendale’s gun was not trained on him, and Girard cannot claim he was defending his loved ones.”

  Girard examined his fingernails, as if the threat of hanging was of no moment to him, and perhaps it wasn’t.

  “Gilly?” Christian looped his arms around her, which was fortunate given that the state of her knees had become unreliable. “What shall be Girard’s fate?”

  The big Frenchman—Englishman?—shot her a look. His green eyes were flint hard, but in them, Gilly saw…a plea, and not for freedom. For understanding, perhaps?

  All she knew was that the man she loved was no longer driven by a need to do murder—and neither was she—and indirectly, she had Girard to thank for her own survival.

  Also Christian’s. “His fate is up to you, Christian.”

  Christian must decide for himself when the war ended and life began anew. All that remained for Gilly was to love him, regardless of his decision.

  He closed his eyes and leaned on Gilly, truly leaned on her, as he had when she’d first joined his household and he’d barely been able to sleep through the night, keep down a cup of tea, or sign his name.

  “Then Girard goes about his business, and I go about mine.”

  “My thanks, Your Grace, for your mercy.” Girard bowed low to Gilly, collected his second, and disappeared into the morning fog.

  ***

  “Lucy is more taken with the adventure of riding all the way up to Town with you than she is traumatized to know Marcus is dead.” Christian might have been discussing the weather, not murder most foul, and murder narrowly averted.

  While Gilly remained seated at St. Just’s library desk, Christian moved pieces around on a chessboard near the window.

  “We were so lucky,” Gilly said, fiddling with a letter opener sporting what had to be the Moreland crest.

  Unicorns seemed appropriate for St. Just. He hadn’t come home yet, for he’d had an unfortunate accident to report involving the late Lord Greendale and firearms affected by morning damp.

  “How were we lucky?” Christian returned the pieces, one by one, to their starting positions.

  “On the way up from Surrey, the roads were dry, we met little traffic, and George and John were able to get us household funds and to pack our saddlebags with food and drink. The groom knew exactly where we were going, and Mr. Stoneleigh was all that was hospitable. Lucy thought we were merely out for a hack until we left the lanes. She rides very well.”

  “She’s a Severn, of course she rides well.”

  “One hopes she’ll sleep well.”

  Christian’s mouth quirked, the first hint of a smile Gilly had seen from him all day. They’d been busy collecting Lucy from Stoneleigh’s, staying in touch with St. Just as he dealt with the authorities, and putting together the story of Marcus’s perfidy.

  And of course, Lucy and her papa had had much, much, to say to each other.

  “One hopes I’ll sleep well.” Christian examined the white queen, a smiling little study in carved marble. “What were you thinking, trying to stop a duel? What if Girard and I had already engaged? You could have got me killed, or worse, been hurt yourself.”

  Did he want to toss the little queen as much as Gilly wanted to upend the entire chessboard? She rose from the safety of the desk and went to the sofa.

  “I had to see you, had to talk to you. Come sit with me.” She held out a hand, and he hesitated.

  That instant’s hesitation devastated Gilly, though in some corner of her soul, she’d anticipated it.

  What man could be attracted to a woman who had judged him bitterly for his instinct for justice, then had fallen prey herself to ungovernable violent impulses?

  “If I touch you, Countess, I’ll want to take you to bed.”

  She let her hand drop. “Why? I might have killed Marcus, had I been able. And now, my temper seems to plague me without ceasing. I fear for Girard if my path ever crosses his, Christian, though what he imparted in that clearing should at least earn the man my forbearance. Any who seek to harm you or Lucy will find a madwoman—”

  His expression was unreadable, but he at least sat beside her and took her hand.

  “The protectiveness you exhibited with that buggy whip, which arguably saved my life, is the antithesis of what drove Greendale, Gilly, and had nothing in common with Marcus’s ruthless self-interest. They were men of hatred. You are a woman who loves.”

  He spoke slowly, quietly, as if she might bolt off the sofa and run into the street howling did he get a single word wrong. The composure Gilly had fought so hard to learn threatened to desert her—again.

  “About that.” But then the words wou
ldn’t come, wouldn’t push past the ache in her throat.

  “Gillian?” Christian slid his free arm around her, and Gilly turned her face into his shoulder. He smelled good, of lemon and ginger, and understanding.

  “I hate embroidery. Needlework makes my head hurt and my eyes sting, and I was never competent at it as a girl.”

  “You made your needle a weapon. But you no longer need to wield it.”

  “Yes. Exactly. You understand better than I did myself. I thought I was above doing battle. I thought I’d chosen the better path. I hadn’t. I’d chosen only silent battles, though—until today. What does that make me?”

  “Brave. Determined, shrewd, resilient. Formidable.”

  He kissed her hand with each word, as a knight might kiss a damsel’s hand, and Gilly’s heart nearly broke for the absolution he offered.

  “You are a war hero,” she said, lifting her face. “The victim of betrayal by your own heir, a man who preyed on your wife and children.”

  “Victim is not a word a proud man wants associated with him in any sense,” Christian said. “Nor a proud lady.”

  “I was not a prisoner of war. I was a wife.”

  “Unless you accept that you were a prisoner of war too, Gilly, then you will always struggle with being my wife.” His voice was gentle, and his thumb brushed back and forth over the small scar on her knuckle. “You were betrayed by family, as I was. You were tortured, as I was. You were toyed with and paraded about as a trophy of war, as I was. You fought back in the small ways available to you, as I did, and you prevailed in the end, whereas I merely endured.”

  “I did not prevail,” she whispered. “I did not. My enemy simply died, and even in death, he nearly defeated me. Had Girard not shot Marcus, I would cheerfully have died, provided I could have hurt Marcus further as I breathed my last.”

  Her consternation at this realization was immeasurable, a complete departure from what she’d believed herself to be, and yet, she’d take up that whip against Marcus in the next instant if given the chance again.

  “You took a few swats with a horsewhip at a man who deserved far worse. While I understand you are uncomfortable with having done violence to Marcus’s person, don’t you think his instructions to his solicitors were left in such a way as to cast the gravest suspicion on you when Greendale died? You prevailed, Gilly. Against Greendale, against his heir, and against all the demons haunting me, and even those haunting my daughter. You won.” He scooped her into his lap and held her close. “My duchess must be proud of her victories, as I am proud of her.”

  “I almost do feel p-proud,” she said. “Marcus would have killed you. He nearly did, and I was almost too late, and, oh, God, he killed Helene, and all for a stupid t-title. I love you. I love you so, and Marcus has been trying to have you killed for so l-long.”

  She sobbed into his neck, holding on to him as if she were drowning, wetting his shirt and telling him over and over she loved him. When he carried her to the bed, she tore his clothes from him and had him naked on his back in moments.

  A lady who will fight for her love will fight for her pleasure, too.

  Then his will prevailed, by degrees, until they were savoring each other and speaking in whispers and sighs between the times when their bodies spoke in silence.

  She wanted a quiet wedding; he wanted St. George’s with all the trimmings.

  She wanted to wait until spring out of respect for Helene and Evan. He wanted their vows said the day after the banns had been cried for the third time.

  She wanted to remove to Severn immediately; he wanted to flaunt her on his arm before every hostess and title in Town.

  They did not argue, though. They talked, they listened, they even tussled a time or two, though into the dawn and for the rest of their lives, most of all, they loved.

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  in the Captive Hearts series

  The Traitor

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  The Laird

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  Read on for a sneak peek at the next two books in the groundbreaking Captive Hearts series

  The Traitor

  The Laird

  Coming soon from Grace Burrowes and Sourcebooks Casablanca

  The Traitor

  The bullet whistled past Sebastian’s ear, coming within an inch of solving all of his problems, and half an inch of making a significant mess instead.

  “Die, goddamn you!” Lieutenant Lord Hector Pierpont fired his second shot, but rage apparently made the man careless. A venerable oak lost a few bare twigs to the field of honor.

  “I shall die, bien sûr,” Sebastian said, a prayer as much as a promise. “But not today.”

  He took aim on Pierpont’s lapel. An English officer to his very bones, Pierpont stood still, eyes closed, waiting for death to claim him. In the frosty air, his breath clouded before him in the same shallow pants that might have characterized postcoital exertion.

  Such drama. Sebastian cocked his elbow and dealt another wound to the innocent oak branches. “And neither shall you die today. It was war, Pierpont. For the sake of your womenfolk, let it be over.”

  Sebastian fired the second bullet overhead to punctuate that sentiment, also to ensure no loaded weapons remained within Pierpont’s ambit. When Pierpont opened his eyes, Sebastian gazed into loathing so intense as to confirm his lordship would rather be dead than suffer any more of Sebastian’s clemency or sermonizing.

  Sebastian walked up to him and spoke quietly enough that the seconds could not hear.

  “You gave away nothing. What little scraps you threw me had long since reached the ears of French intelligence. Go home, kiss your wife, and give her more babies, but leave me and mine in peace. Next time, I will not delope, mon ami.”

  He slapped Pierpont lightly on the cheek, a small, friendly reminder of other blows, and walked away.

  “You are not fit to breathe the air of England, St. Clair.”

  This merited a dismissive parting wave of Sebastian’s hand. Curses were mere bagatelles to a man who’d dealt in screams and nightmares for years. “Au revoir, Pierpont. My regards to your wife and daughters.”

  The former captain and his missus were up to two. Charming little demoiselles with Pierpont’s dark eyes. Perhaps from their mother they might inherit some common sense and humor.

  “Cold bastard.”

  That, from Captain Anderson, one of Pierpont’s seconds. Anderson was a twitchy, well-fed blond fellow with a luxurious mustache. Threaten the mustache, and Monsieur Bold Condescension would chirp out the location of his mother’s valuables like a horny nightingale in spring.

  Michael Brodie snatched the pistol from Sebastian’s grasp, took Sebastian by the arm, and led him toward their horses. “You’ve had your fun, now come along like a good baron.”

  “Insubordinate, you are. I thought the English were bad, but you Irish give the term realms of meaning Dr. Johnson never dreamed.”

  “You are English, lest we forget the reason yon righteous arse wants to perforate your heart at thirty paces. Get on the horse, Baron, and I’m only half-Irish.”

  A fact dear Michel had kept quiet until recently.

  Sebastian pretended to test the tightness of Fable’s girth, but used the moment to study Pierpont, who was in conversation with his seconds. Pierpont was in good enough weight, and he was angry—furious—but not insane with it. Nothing about his complexion or his eyes suggested habitual drunkenness, and he had two small, adorable daughters who needed their papa’s love and adoration.

  Maybe today’s little exchange would allow them to have it.

  “You fret, Michel, and one wants to strike you for it. The English are violent with their servants, non? Perhaps today I will be English after all.”

 
“The French were violent with the entire Continent, best as I recall, and bits of Africa and the high seas into the bargain. You ought not to begrudge the English some violence with their help from time to time. Keeps us on our toes.”

  Michael climbed aboard his bay, and Sebastian swung up on Fable.

  Burnished red eyebrows lowered into a predictable scowl. “You would have to ride a white horse,” Michael groused. “Might as well paint a target on your back and send a boy ahead to warn all and sundry the Traitor Baron approaches.”

  Sebastian nudged his horse forward.

  “Fable was black as the Pit when he was born. I cannot help what my horse decides to do with his hair. That is between him and his God. Stop looking over your shoulder, Michel. Pierpont was an officer. He will not shoot me in the back, and he will not blame you for sparing all others the burden of seconding me.”

  Michael took one more look over his shoulder—both the Irish half of him and the Scottish half were well endowed with contrariness.

  “How many duels does that make, your lordship? Four? Five? One of these honorable former officers will put paid to your existence, and where will Lady Freddy be, then? Think on that the next time you’re costing me and Fable our beauty sleep.”

  He took out a flask and imbibed a hefty swallow, suggesting his nerves were truly in bad repair.

  “I am sorry.” Such flaccid words Sebastian offered, but sincere. “You should not worry about my early outings. These men do not want to kill me any more than I wanted to kill them.”

  Michael knew better than to offer his flask. “You didn’t kill them, that’s the problem. What you did was worse, and even if they don’t want to kill you—which questionable conclusion we can attribute to your woefully generous complement of Gallic arrogance—the rest of England, along with a few loyal Scots, some bored Welshmen, and six days a week, an occasional sober Irishman, would rather you died. I’m in the employ of a dead man.”

  “Melodrama does not become you.” Sebastian cued Fable into a canter, lest Michael point out that melodrama, becoming or not, had long enjoyed respect as a socially acceptable means of exposing painful and inconvenient truths.