Page 113 of The Captive Duke
“From the saddle, from the ground, from the trees. I was once posted as lookout in a church steeple, and fired a warning shot to my men by hitting the bell hanging from the town hall across the square. That didn’t sit well, but it was the only way to gain enough height for decent reconnaissance.”
“Do you ever miss the army?”
“No, I do not.” He passed her a loaded pistol. “Why would I?”
“St. Just said something about the Corsican making plans to escape,” she said, taking the gun. “Another man might be consumed with hunting down his captors and putting an end to them. I thank God you are not. I’ve dealt with enough violence to last a lifetime, and I could not endure it casting a shadow over the future.”
She’d worded her sentiment carefully—thefuture, notourfuture.
The pistol was small, as guns went, the barrel only four inches, which meant it hadn’t much aim over distances. Despite a mortal loathing for violence, Gillyliked knowing that, liked understanding why it was so. Christian had explained it to her, just as he’d made her learn how to clean her gun, how its mechanism worked, and how to handle it when it was loaded.
“The Corsican has nothing else to do but make his little plans,” Christian said, scanning the hedgerow and looking very ducal indeed. “Try for the twig about six feet up on that oak.”
Being short, Gilly had to train herself to aim a little higher than she thought she should, to let her hand follow her eye. Christian moved to stand behind her. She took aim and clipped the thing neatly.
“I do like it when the bullet does what I tell it to.”
“You like it when everything does as you say.” He took the gun from her hand. “More shooting, or have you had enough?” His teasing had a small edge to it, or maybe Gilly was the one on edge. He hadn’t said anything more about going up to Town, but dukes invariably spent time in London.
“Enough practice. The air reeks of our efforts.”
“I used to hate the stench of sulfur,” he said, sounding a bit puzzled.
Ah, another quagmire, which Gilly understood well. “Just as you hated cats and the sound of the French language on a man’s lips and sudden noises and loud noises… What?”
“We’re to be disturbed,” he said, purposely setting the gun aside so a footman could approach them. “What is it, George?”
“Beg pardon, Your Grace, a letter came from Town by messenger.”
Christian held out his hand, and Gilly felt a sense of foreboding. Perhaps St. Just was planning another visit, except the man knew he need not send warning, and certainly not by courier. Christian tore the missive open and scanned its contents, his expression betraying nothing.
“I will be nipping up to Town after all.”
Feathers.Damned, perishing feathers. “St. Just summons you?”
“Something like that. Shall we see if all this racket has disturbed Lucy’s lessons?”
She let him get away with that, let him dangle the obvious distraction before her, and let him saunter along beside her through the gardens. All the while, Gilly felt a growing silent tumult.
Christian was still settling in, still recovering. He wasn’t supposed to hare off on business—he was a duke, for pity’s sake, his business came to him with a snap of his elegant fingers.
“I’ll send a note over to Marcus,” Christian was saying. “He’ll be more than happy to have a respite from the challenges at Greendale.”
“I don’t want him here,” Gilly retorted, knowing her reply was irrational, knowing her voice held a note of panic.
“Gilly…” He paused at the French doors leading to the library. “He’s family, and he’s agreed to do this forme. I’m hopeful if I ask a favor of him, he’ll let me provide some assistance with Greendale in return. It’s a sop to masculine pride, I know…”
She stomped off a few paces and turned her back to him.
“Gillian?” He walked up behind her and stood near enough that she could catch a hint of lemon and ginger, but he didn’t touch her. “Talk to me.”
Nowhe wanted to talk, while Gilly wanted to weep and wasn’t exactly sure why. “He smokes horrid cigars.”
A patient, considering silence greeted that pronouncement, then, “Make sense to me, Gilly. You are a wonderfully sensible woman. Explain to me your reservations, because Imustgo, and I must know you are safe when I do. Am I being unreasonable?”
No, but neither was Gilly.
She whirled on him, prepared to beg. “Marcus knew, Christian. Heknewexactly what Greendale was about, and he did nothing. Kissed my hand and went on his way to call on Helene or scamper back to Spain or up to Town, there to drink the winter away with his fellow officers on leave.”
