Page 103 of The Captive
“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, Gillian.”
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.”
