Page 53 of The Captive
She went still before him, and he wished he could see her expression.
“But your silence is precious as well. I’ll tell you a secret, if you like.”
She nodded, cautiously.
“I had pets, in…France. You’ll think me foolish—Ithink me foolish, for that matter, but they were my only friends. Do you know of whom I speak? Little fellows with no weapons, no big teeth or fierce claws, helpless little beasts who wanted only a morsel to eat, and to live out their days in peace. Can you guess who they were?”
Whatwashedoing, telling this to a child?
But she was listening; he knew she was listening.
“They were very quiet, like you, quiet as mice, for they were mice. They came around looking for crumbs, hiding from the castle cats, and I let them eat what fell from my plate. We became great friends, the mice and I. We endured our privations together.”
But the mice had never become tame, had never quite given up their wariness, no matter how cold or hungry they were. He’d admired those small, soft, helpless creatures, and as miserable as his rations had been, he’d never begrudged the mice their crumbs.
Lucy said nothing, but she relaxed back against her papa.
She no doubt thought he was teasing, but he was damn near tears, and finished the ride as silent as his little princess.
Lucy must have picked up on his mood—she was a bright child, after all—because when he went to swing her down off the high mounting block used by the ladies, she clung to him for a moment, her arms lashed around his neck, her face buried against his shoulder.
A hug, for the man who’d had no friends save the mice, from the daughter who could not tell him she loved him.
Ten
Christian tried not to spend his days looking down the drive, anticipating Gillian’s return from Town. She’d sent a note along telling him she was detained by sartorial matters and would not be back until week’s end.
So he stayed busy, which wasn’t difficult.
The land steward, Hancock, was happy to ride out with him as the weather permitted; the tenants were pleased to have his lordship “drop by” on a schedule Hancock carefully arranged. Vicar came to call again, a fifteen-minute ordeal without Gillian smiling and chattering over the tea service.
Christian had nightmares, of course, worse for Gillian’s absence, or for something, but it helped—some—that he was gradually adding activity to his day.
Having word of Girard’s whereabouts would have helped more.
St. Just had warned Christian about others held prisoner, fellows who’d taken months to regain enough health to rejoin their regiments. Christian’s body wasn’t taking months. He was putting on muscle, his teeth and gums were restored to reliable use, but his mind wasn’t coming along at such a spanking pace.
The nightmares were to be expected, but at least once every day, he’d hear a door slam and his heart would pound for no reason.
Candlelight glinting off a paring knife could make his lungs seize.
He’d attempt some simple task with his left hand—tying a cravat—and fail so miserably he wanted to destroy all in his reach.
This last problem was particularly vexing. His left hand was growing stronger, but its dexterity was limited. The right hand was strong enough, but was still clumsy. Hands were such an obvious, integral part of bodily competence that Christian became determined to address his manual limitations.
But every day that Gillian lingered in Town, the demons rose higher in his mind: What was the point of learning to shave himself right-handed—not that he’d suffer a valet to come near him with a razor, of course. What was the point of coaxing Lucy to speak again? What was the point of continuing to draw breath? The world had thought him dead once before, and gone on turning quite handily without him.
And then he’d hear Girard’s silky voice in his ear.
“Shall I kill you today,monange? Would you like that? To leave me here in this miserable pile of rocks all alone, hoping the Corsican can recover not only from the drubbing of your armies, but also from the Russian winter? Shall I give you permanent silence, and victory with it? I would envy you too badly, did I commend you to the angels, so me, I think no death for you today…”
Girard’s regard for him had been disturbingly convincing. Girard had kept Christian alive, in part through those backhanded recitations of France’s losses and tribulations, though Christian would be damned if he’d ever thank the bastard for it. And to complicate matters, Girard was apparently the son of an Englishman. What conflicted loyalties lay behind Girard’s stratagems, and had the colonel truly longed for death himself?
A clock chimed, midnight.
Putinyourmindapictureofwhatyoucanlookforwardto and…add details to it, one by one, until the picture is very accurate and the urge to do something untoward has passed.
Christian fell asleep, finally, as he had for the previous six nights, telling himself Gillian was better off putting some distance between herself and the Severn household. He wanted her under his roof—under his protection—but he had little to offer her other than that—at least until he’d dispatched Girard.
