Page 81 of The Captive
“Did we trade oranges today?” He sat and patted the mattress, but a cozy chat was not in the offing.
“I haven’t eaten any oranges today.” She settled beside him, trying to recall everything she’d eaten or drunk, everything he’d eaten or drunk.
“The tea.” They said it at the same time.
“That tea was intended for you,” he said. “I chased off the footmen at the last minute on impulse, because I was sick to death of ledgers and I’d missed you.”
She looked away, not sure that was a helpful admission under the circumstances.
Underanycircumstances…
“I guzzled down most of your cold tea. Do you usually consume the whole of it during an afternoon’s gardening?”
“Yes, if it’s a hot day, like today,” Gilly said, feeling abruptly chilled as the plausibility of Christian’s conclusion sank in. “You didn’t drink it all.”
“But you had none, and I had half the jug. I’m nigh twice your weight, Gilly. Someone means for you to die.”
He put his arms around her, and she scooted as close to him as she could get.
***
Having an enemy under Christian’s own roof galvanized the military officer in him, and Christian rejoiced to have that part of himself back. For too long, he’d been nothing but a captive, and by God,byGod, he was ready to fight again.
Revenge was a fine notion to sustain a man while he regained his strength, but engaged battle was the surest sign of a full recovery.
“Whoever means you harm, Gilly, they’ll have to go through me to get to you, and I’m more trouble than they can possibly imagine.”
“But who would want me dead? I’m nobody. I’m nothing, a plain little impoverished widow whose best years are behind her.” She sounded so bewildered, as if she honestly believed that assessment.
“You are a titled lady, a member of this household, and the woman who wouldn’t let me die only hours ago. You also have to be exhausted.”
“How can I sleep when you tell me somebody wants me dead?” She rested her forehead against his shoulder, and his rage spiked. She was small, a quiet, diminutive woman who’d known enough grief and misery in her life. Only a fiend would prey on her.
And while Girard was a fiend, he’d had a Gallic gallantry where women were concerned, and no tolerance for soldiers who abused the whores and laundresses.
“You’re staying here with me, madam. We both need rest, and I won’t be able to close my eyes if you’re intent on sleeping elsewhere.”
She was apparently so rattled she didn’t protest, didn’t come at him with eleven reasons why he was wrong, misguided, and a fool. He hurt for her, that she should be so daunted.
“You were right,” she said miserably. “You were right about the coach wheel and Damsel’s girth. You’re right about the tea.”
He wished to God he’d been wrong. “There’s nothing to be done about it until morning.”
“And then?”
“We’ll make plans when I’m not recovering from poison, and you’re not exhausted from combating its effects on me.” And he’d find out where the hell Girard had gone to ground, for despite a backhanded chivalry toward the women at the garrison, who else would have the wits to cause Christian such diabolical mischief?
Gilly sat beside him, staring at her hands folded in her lap, and he wanted to howl. His countess at a loss was a daunting sight. Old Greendale hadn’t been able to blight her spirit, but someone else was certainly trying to.
They’d fail spectacularly. He’d make sure of it. “Come to bed.”
“I can’t.” She sat up straighter, a ghost of her spirit manifesting. “The staff will never stop gossiping.”
“They never do stop gossiping, but you’re a widow. If you want consolation from me in your grief, it’s your business, as you yourself reminded me.”
“Your tune has changed, Your Grace.”
“So has yours. If we’re to share a bed, you will please use my name.”
