Page 108 of The Captive
Mercia paused by a bed of mostly blown roses that had likely cost more than the mount Marcus made do with in Aragon’s absence. “Lady Greendale is struggling, Marcus.”
“Mourning is a difficult time.” What could make Gillian, Lady Greendale, struggle now, if eight years before the mast with the old man hadn’t done it?
“Mourning is difficult for us all. Helene was your friend.”
For God’s sake…after months of silence among the bloody French, Mercia had to turn up fearlessly blunt now. Marcus made a study of the roses, though if this variety had a scent, he could not detect it.
“Helene was your duchess, but these are gloomy thoughts on a beautiful day. Come up to the house, and we’ll enjoy some fine brandy before you interrogate me over lunch.”
He watched a strange look cross His Grace’s features at the use of the word interrogate, and knew a little satisfaction to think in some small way he could make his famous, unbreakable, quiet, ducal cousin squirm.
It wasn’t enough, but it was something.
***
St. Just’s gaze traveled from the vines twining up the curtains, to the pansies blooming on the pillowcases and slipcovers, and the intricate geometric designs on the runner gracing the coffee table in Gilly’s sitting room.
“You really do embroider everything in sight,” he said.
“And I embroider some things out of sight,” Gilly replied then realized from the smile on St. Just’s face that his imagination wasn’t conjuring images of handkerchiefs.
“Mercia warned me to lock up my stockings,” St. Just said, sauntering into the little parlor. He was a good-looking man, less refined than Christian, but blessed with a pair of green eyes sporting long dark lashes and winging dark brows. All in all, an imposing man, but somehow, less of a man to Gilly than Christian.
St. Just had never been taken captive, never known torture, never been moved nigh to violence at the sight of an unexpected kitten. These facts ought to diminish Christian, but in her eyes, they gilded his courage and made him all the more remarkable.
“If you keep looking at the clock, my lady, the hands will advance, and your duke will return, but a visit to the back terrace might be in order if you’re not to entirely waste this beautiful day.”
“You’ve been very patient with me,” she said, rising. “Another turn through the park might serve.”
He offered his arm and matched her pace as they made their way to the terrace. He’d been a cheerful if ruthless companion when she gardened, pulling weeds beside her with a sort of barbaric enthusiasm. She’d asked him about his horses, though, and his gaze had softened considerably.
Over lunch, he’d told her amusing stories about his siblings and about that august personage, his father, the Duke of Moreland. Then he’d let George and John stand guard outside the study door while she caught up on correspondence, but here he was, again taking escort duty.
“Do you miss your siblings, Colonel?” she asked as they descended from the back terrace.
“A challenging question, to which a man not decorated for bravery would say, of course.”
“But you are a brave man, so…?”
“I miss them, and I dread them,” he said, and rather than tour the roses—which were past their prime—St. Just escorted Gilly in the direction of the stables. “We’ve been at peace for months now, and I expect to wake up one day and say to myself, ‘Well, now, things are back to normal, and isn’t that a great relief?’”
“Except?”
“Except I keep waking up prepared to tell my men we’re moving on to another town, farther to the north and east, pushing our way across the entire Iberian Peninsula to crawl up Bonaparte’s back. I expect to hear we’re besieging yet another bloody walled city, and I do mean sanguinary, with all the same carnage and misery the last siege provoked.”
The charming officer had gone, leaving a career soldier in his place, and Gilly liked this fellow even more than that officer.
“You miss war?” Gilly asked, because she missed nothing, not one thing, about her marriage to Greendale.
A curiously happy thought.
“I grew used to it,” he said. “I knew who my enemies were, who was under my command, and what our objective was when we marched out. I had specific tasks: get this report to that general, count the number of horses in the following towns, and so forth. This is not a fit topic for a lady.”
“The interesting topics never are. So you do miss it.”
The gardens were past their peak, and the fall flowers hadn’t yet started to bloom. St. Just knelt to snap off a sprig of lavender and held it under his nose.
“I miss having a purpose as compelling as life and death, King and Country. I miss being something besides Moreland’s oldest by-blow.”
