Page 113 of The Captive
Christian was playful, but if anything ever happened to him, Gilly would not survive his loss. Thank God, Christian was resuming the bucolic life of an English duke; thank God he’d offered to resume it with her.
He was quiet for long minutes while his hand wandered around her neck and shoulders. Shot his horse, indeed. She closed her eyes, pleased with herself, and with him too.
***
“I don’t want Marcus babysitting me.”
Gilly’s displeasure was evident in her tone and in the way she planted her hands on her hips. The stable lads found somewhere else to be, but Christian wasn’t fooled. The lazy blighters were all within earshot, and they’d soon let him know what they thought of the man who riled their favorite little countess so early in the day.
“I told you I wouldn’t leave you unprotected when I had to go to Town,” he said, keeping his tone reasonable with effort.
“Send St. Just to tend me, or content yourself that I’m not in any danger. They were mishaps and accidents.”
“They were not.” He was sure of it. He did not know why he was sure of it, but he was. Soldier’s instinct, maybe, or the conviction of a man who’d had too much bad luck in recent years. “I don’t even know that I’ll be traveling to Town soon, I merely wanted to remind you of the possibility in case I need tend to anything for you while I’m there. Shall I call upon Mr. Stoneleigh? Check on your funds? Find you more shawls to embroider?”
“Do not patronize me, Christian.”
Her use of his name ought to have gratified him, but given her tone, it was…chilling, like the metal-on-metal sound of iron bars locking into position.
“I’m trying to communicate with you,” he said, advancing on her. Before she could flounce away, he laid an arm across her shoulders. “St. Just will be down from the house any minute. I promise I’ll argue with you the livelong day, but might we have a short cease-fire to see our guest off?”
Ourguest. She appeared to ponder taking issue with that then gave him a terse nod. “We can.”
“I do mean it. If it makes you feel better to fight with me, Gilly, I’ll be your sparring partner.” Because he knew well the gratuitous urge to hit something—anything—when the proper object of a vengeful impulse was beyond reach.
“Until you run off to London.”
She was doing her best to show the colors, but Christian heard the undercurrent of worry in her words, worry for him, but also worry about how she’d fare in his absence.
“I’m not running off to London. I’m tending to business, the same as you did earlier this summer. You can send me long, nasty letters criticizing every aspect of my personality while I’m gone. You can draw Lucy aside and explain to her the failings of the common man, and the worse failings of her own papa. You can convert Chessie to your cause, because you’ve already turned my entire staff against me.”
“They love you,” she said, drawing away to look at him.
“They love you more, Gilly dear.” As he loved her more each day. “You looked after Lucy when I could not, and if the staff at Greendale knew something of the state of your marriage, they very likely gossiped with our staff as well.”
She paused in their progress down the barn aisle. “They should have a disgust of me.”
“You have an undeserved disgust of yourself, which you should turn on your late spouse and leave there, but here comes the colonel, looking entirely too pleased to leave us.”
“We need to talk, Christian.” She spoke quietly, all the fight gone out of her.
“You’re not leaving me.” He hadn’t meant to say that, hadn’t meant to make a pronouncement to a woman who was entitled to a permanent dislike of men and their dictates.
“Christian Severn,” she said, smoothing his hair back gently. “I do not want to leave you. You are my favorite duke.”
St. Just chose now to come strutting across the gardens, saddlebags over his shoulder. He whistled a nimble, jaunty version of “God Save the King,” as if he knew his timing was awful.
“We will talk, Gillian,” Christian said, leaning closer and cadging a kiss to her cheek despite St. Just’s approach.
“I see you, Mercia, behaving like a naughty schoolboy and trying the countess’s patience,” St. Just said. “I can only thank your staff my horse hasn’t been exposed to such a puerile display.”
“His Grace is feeling frisky this morning,” Gilly said. “Autumn approaches, and he’s suffering the fidgets. Makes him prone to mischief.”
“Don’t listen to her,” Christian said as St. Just’s horse was led out. Christian took the saddlebags from his guest’s shoulder and tied them up behind the cantle.
“See to my mount, Duke, while I see to your countess.” St. Just winged an arm at Gilly and tossed out one of his charming smiles while Christian busied himself with checking over the fit of the bridle and girth. This display of caution was idle, for St. Just would repeat the inspection before mounting, but Gilly liked the colonel and deserved a moment with an ally.
They walked off toward the garden, leaving Christian to pet the beast, a big, solid bay gelding, not the same one as the last time St. Just had come through, for this one was more elegant with a more refined head.
