Page 78 of The Captive
“That…that…Girard was his name?” She covered the scars with her palm. “He was a devil. You’re right to want him dead, but better to make him live with the memory of the crimes he perpetrated.”
“Interesting theory, though those particular scars were courtesy of his ever-helpful superior. Girard considered burns messy, crude, and prone to infection—infection is particularly noisome, according to Girard.”
“One hopes he drew that conclusion on the basis of firsthand experience, for burns are also painful, and Girard of all people deserves to suffer.”
His Grace looked at her oddly, as if he wanted to smile but didn’t dare. “You’re very fierce, Countess. Are you also thirsty?”
“No, thank you. How can you explain torture to me in one breath and offer me a drink with the next?”
“Because you might be thirsty. I’m nearly grateful for the scars.”
Gilly swiped at her temple with her glove, and succeeded in sprinkling dirt on her bodice. “You talk nonsense, Your Grace.”
“I’ve been demoted to Your Grace again.” He sat on his rump, extending one leg and drawing up the other knee. “The scars reassure me I was indeed taken prisoner. I didn’t make it all up. When you’re the only one to vouch for your memories, they become…suspect.”
He was in the strangest mood, and Gilly was so angry at this Girard person, she could nearly countenance a violent end for him. Nearly. Thank God the duke had been able to move beyond such petty reactions.
“Take your shirt off, Mercia.”
“I beg your pardon.” But he didn’t sit up, didn’t poker up. “It’s a pretty day, why would you want to see me unclothed, Countess?”
Asiftheweatherweredeservingofconsideration?
“You shall tell me,” she said as he lay back and closed his eyes. “You shall tell me about each damned scar and what you recall of it.”
“No.”
She crawled over to him and began unbuttoning his shirt. “Yes.”
“Gilly…” He put a hand over hers. “It’s my cross to bear.”
As if she’d steal his memories of torment? “And you will bear it, whether you show me this or not. I’ve seen you. It’s just flesh.”
She unbuttoned his shirt, expecting him to get to his feet and stride off at any moment. She pushed the shirt aside and frankly stared at the expanse of disfigured flesh before her. Studying it had seemed gauche and thoughtless before.
It felt necessary now.
“Here,” she said, tracing her finger over his sternum, which sported a thick welt along its length. “Tell me about this one.”
A sigh, which made his chest rise and fall, but still he didn’t get up.
“Girard said he’d cut out my heart. He was losing patience that day. It’s easy to forget the war went badly for France, too.”
Gilly kept moving her fingers over the scar. “What else did he say?”
“He said…” The duke raised his head and met her eyes, his expression disgruntled, or resigned. “He said he’d cut out my heart and feed it to the officers guarding me, my heart being as tough as the meager rations they’d been reduced to. They all had a good laugh over that, while I silently delighted to think Girard had let slip that his garrison was nearly starving.”
Gilly did not laugh, nor did His Grace. He paused, stilled her hand over his heart, and then resumed the tale. When the sun was low and the shadows were long, and the duke had swilled most of the cold tea, Gilly helped him get his shirt back on. They folded up the blanket but left the basket for the footmen to bring in, and walked back to the house hand in hand.
Fourteen
Christian’s sleep was so routinely unsettled that he took a good while to realize he wasn’t having the sort of waking nightmare that seemed more real than a dream.
He wassick. Heaving-his-guts-up, head-poundingly, bone-achingly sick.
And behind at least one locked door.
The first order of business was to retch into the chamber pot, which was thankfully otherwise empty.
