Page 36 of The Captive
His Grace’s handsome head, for example.
“No birchings for my daughter, then, and no more threats, either. Not from anybody.” When Gilly dared a glance at him, his Grace’s expression suggested talk of Gilly’s eventual departure qualified as a threat. “I commend the lemon cakes to your excellent care, Countess.”
He rose, bowed over her hand, then departed, his back militarily straight.
Leaving Gilly to wonder if His Grace’s hospitality was a great and subtle kindness, or if—the notion chilled—he’d threatened her with a gilded cage.
Another gilded cage.
***
Christian wasn’t precisely glad to be alive. Surviving torture turned a man into a ghost toting a bag of memories that could not be shared, and inhabiting a body no longer reliable or easily maintained. That body, after torture, did not sleep well, did not exert itself unproblematically, did not ingest food easily, and certainly could not be relied upon to deal with amatory pastimes—not that Christian would be indulging in any of those.
Not soon. Not immediately.
But the hour he’d spent with his daughter made it plain the child, at least, was delighted her papa had survived, and this changed the complexion of Christian’s existence.
For himself, he could be content to languish in bitterness, to wake up each day after a bad night’s sleep—the countess would not permit a continued reversal of circadian routines—aching in body and soul, dreams of revenge his constant companion.
For his child, he would have to manage something…more, until Girard could be found and exterminated.
Lucy wanted her papa to take her up on Chessie, an exercise requiring the ability to guide the horse with his seat and one hand while he steadied the child with the other.
She wanted to hold her papa’s hand—either one would do—and to ride about on his back.
She expected his appearance in the nursery on some predictable schedule.
If anything had assisted Christian to remain upright and breathing, despite Girard’s mischief, it was the physical fitness of a seasoned cavalry officer determined to lead his men well. That part of military life—the physical challenge of it—Christian had foolishly thrived on.
The time had come to foolishly thrive again, insofar as a tired and tormented body would allow it.
So Christian began his first full day at Severn as his father and grandfather often had, by riding out. He started with the grounds of Severn itself, the bridle paths and park, keeping mostly to the walk. Yesterday’s ride down from Town had tired both him and the horse, and the purpose of the morning ride was twofold.
He wanted to regain condition, or see if it was possible to regain condition, and he wanted to see his land. The countess had been right to bring him home, for southern England was beautiful in summer.
And her ladyship apparently intended to enjoy it to the fullest, for Christian spotted her walking among his mother’s treasured gardens. For the first time, Lady Greendale wasn’t in black—he delighted in knowing even her night robes were black—and she was out-of-doors without a bonnet.
He was inclined to leave her to her wanderings, except she looked so…pretty. She wore a high-waisted walking dress in lavender, her blond hair burnished gold in the morning sun, and she was humming as she occasionally bent down to sniff a flower.
“I know I’ve been caught,” she said, kneeling to take in the scent of a red rose and getting a damp patch on one knee for her efforts. “You should not lurk in the trees, Mercia. Come into the sun, and greet the day with me.”
She ran her nose over the flower’s outer petals and gave him a soft, private smile that put him in mind of Italian Renaissance maidens who knew delightful, naughty secrets.
“Good morning, Countess. You’re up early.”
“As are you, as is the sun. And your dear friend, Mr. Chesterton.”
“My lazy friend. We were useless above a sedate trot, weren’t we, Chessie?”
The horse looked about, pricking his ears at the sound of his name. Christian swung down, gave the animal a pat on the neck, and fell in step beside the countess, leading his gelding by the reins.
“Did you sleep well?” she asked. “My mama said it’s a polite inquiry, but the question strikes me as personal.”
“I rarely sleep well,” he said, simply for the pleasure of thwarting her small talk.
“Neither do I.” Her smile became sad, and he wondered why they hadn’t met up in the library again the previous evening, where something more interesting than sleep might have befallen them. “Restless nights are the price of adulthood, perhaps.” She slipped her hand through his arm, uninvited, as if she would…comfort him?
He stepped aside, untangling their arms, and lifted his hand to his lips to fashion a piercing whistle.
