Page 102 of The Captive Duke
“I’d allow it.”
She offered the words as an olive branch, a small reassurance that though things between them might be changing, her regard for him was constant.
“You should know of my plans,” he said, picking up the candle from the mantel. “I might have to go up to Town in the next weeks, though not for any greatlength of time. If I do go, I’ll ask Marcus to bide here temporarily.”
She nodded, because he was right: the chances of meadow tea poisoning a large man nigh to death were miniscule, and Marcus was a battle-hardened officer, the same as Christian.
“Lucy will be glad of a visitor,” she said, “and I haven’t seen Marcus myself since his last leave.”
Christian held the candle low, so his features were cast in flickering shadow. “You know I care for you, Gillian.”
He made no move to approach her, to kiss her good night, to take her in his arms. Gilly sat at her vanity and pulled pins from her hair, when she wanted to pitch herself against him and cling to him with everything in her.
“And I care for you.” She could say it now, now when his proposal was no longer under discussion.
He left, and Gilly was crying even as she fastened the lock on the door latch. She did as he’d suggested and took herself to bed, cuddling up to the pillow on the side of the bed he’d vacated.
Christian saw his guest to bed late, because they’d started comparing notes and reminiscing about various battles and generals they’d both served under. Eventually, he realized that St. Just had as much trouble sleeping as the next veteran of the Peninsula.
Then too, Christian was procrastinating. He had no intention of sleeping alone, not tonight of all nights, not with Gilly’s disclosures so fresh in his mind and her behavior so dauntingly distant.
But he thought back to his first weeks and months after leaving French hands. He’d been barely human, and he’d suffered no more than she. Physically, Girard’s tortures hadn’t been the worst humanity had devised, nor had they been applied all that frequently.
The worst brutality had been mental, the uncertainty from day to day regarding his fate, the tantalizing hints of hope and decent treatment followed by days of neglect or worse. Then too, the sense of having been so easily forgotten by his fellows had demoralized him. But what was that compared to Gilly’s situation, which her own parents had fashioned for her and the law declared her legally bound fate?
Having been only recently freed from her marriage, still she’d bestirred herself to bring Lucy’s situation to Christian’s attention, to demand that he be responsible toward his daughter.
He checked on Lucy and found her sleeping peacefully, two growing puppies snuggled in beside her, then repaired to his own room where he peeled out of his clothes, washed away the dust of the day, and turned down the bed. Wearing only a dressing gown, he crossed the hallway, unlocked Gilly’s door the same as he had every night, and lifted her into his arms.
“Christian?”
“Of course it’s Christian. If St. Just has taken to poaching, I’ll meet him over the weapon of his choice.”
She blinked up at him then closed her eyes. “My indisposition is yet upon me, and you will not even jest about wreaking violence on a fellow soldier.”
Had she been fully awake, she’d have kept more of that chilly distance. Half-asleep, she had some trust in him, and that was encouraging—also sweet.
“I sleep better when I’m certain you’re safe.”
That was the extent of their discussion, and he was grateful for the silence. Better that she get her rest than that they waste their breath arguing. In sleep, she curled up against him easily and rubbed her cheek against his chest.
In sleep, she let him hold her and laced her fingers through his. She let him comfort her when the nightmares came.
He prayed it was only a matter of time before she allowed him to face her waking dragons with her as well.
“Of course I’ll stay an extra day,” St. Just said, keeping his voice down, though he and Christian stood outside the breakfast parlor. “Is it wise to abandon your lady now, given recent developments?”
“I’m not abandoning her,” Christian said. “I’m following her example.”
“Which would be?”
“Let’s eat while we talk. We’ll have more privacy.”
Christian waved the footmen off, served himself and his guest, and took his place at the head of the table.
“You were off your feed when first we met,” St. Just said. “Matters seem to have righted themselves.”
Christian’s plate bore thick slabs of fragrant, crispy bacon, a mountain of eggs, and two pieces of toast lacking crusts.
