Page 92 of The Captive
Her brows twitched down.
Gillian took Lucy’s hand. “He means you charm those dogs into doing your bidding when they ignore everybody else.”
Lucy’s smile grew broader.
“I know,” Christian said, taking her other hand. “You play with them, and thus are endeared to them. I donate my favorite pair of slippers to their evil ends, and yet they ignore me unless I threaten them with death by rolled-up newspaper.”
He went on in that fashion, teasing, grousing, being more papa than duke, because the gruffness was needed to keep Gilly from bawling, and the teasing was needed to charm his daughter.
And both—Gilly and Lucy—were somehow becoming necessary to him if his life was to have any meaning at all. That he would have to leave them for a time to dispatch Girard did not sit well, particularly not with Gilly having so nearly come to harm.
And yet, Girard—canny bastard—was likely the author of that harm, intending that it force a reckoning between them.
He and Gilly played with Lucy and the dogs, visited the stables, and returned the child to her nursery. The afternoon stretched before them long and lazy, and Christian spun mental strategies about how he’d put the hours to their best use with his countess.
“I am a trifle fatigued,” she said, and Christian’s mood improved to hear it.
“You haven’t been sleeping well of late. I delight in comforting you in your restless slumbers.”
“Maybe you’re the cause of my restless slumbers.”
“You don’t like it when I rub your back, Countess? When I make those circles on your nape, slower and slower until the arms of Morpheus beckon?”Hedelighted in that ritual, for it relaxed him and pleased him to be of service to her.
She kept her powder dry until they were approaching the house. “I really do need a nap, Christian.”
Christian.Her version of wheedling, and damnably effective. “Then so do I.”
“No, you do not. You need to ride out. You’ve foregone that pleasure to tarry with me for the past few mornings, and dear Chessie will pine for you.”
“The way he pined while I was in the hands of the French? The brute was eating out of Easterbrook’s hand by the time I stumbled back to life.”
The observation held genuine annoyance, because the familiar mental tickle was back. Something to do with the horse.
“I’m sure in his way, Chesterton was praying for your safe return. Now, shoo.”
“I’ll walk you upstairs, Gilly.”
She huffed out a breath. “Christian…”
Even in that sniffy, huffy tone, he loved to hear her say his name. “Either you take my arm, or it’s George and John.”
She took his arm, and they progressed through the house in silence. When they reached her door, she tried to close the thing in his face, but he slipped through and turned her by the shoulders.
“None of that,” she said.
“You are ever eager to relieve me of my clothes, Gilly, but you’ve yet to allow me the same pleasure.”
“And I’m not about to allow it now.”
“So modest.” He wrapped his arms around her from behind, because when they were married, surely, she’d trust him with her nudity. “Will you dream of me?”
“I cannot know such a thing.”
“Iknowyou have nightmares.”
She walked out of his embrace and sat at her vanity, removing pins from her hair as if they—or something—had been irritating her.
“I know,” he went on, letting her put some distance between them. “I have them too, and you soothe and comfort me. I’m aware of your kindnesses, Gilly. I’m grateful for them.”
