Page 104 of The Captive
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.
