Page 36 of The Captive Duke
So Christian began his first full day at Severn as his father and grandfather often had, by riding out. He started with the grounds of Severn itself, the bridle paths and park, keeping mostly to the walk. Yesterday’s ride down from Town had tired both him and the horse, and the purpose of the morning ride was twofold.
He wanted to regain condition, or see if it was possible to regain condition, and he wanted to see his land.The countess had been right to bring him home, for southern England was beautiful in summer.
And her ladyship apparently intended to enjoy it to the fullest, for Christian spotted her walking among his mother’s treasured gardens. For the first time, Lady Greendale wasn’t in black—he delighted in knowing even her night robes were black—and she was out-of-doors without a bonnet.
He was inclined to leave her to her wanderings, except she looked so…pretty. She wore a high-waisted walking dress in lavender, her blond hair burnished gold in the morning sun, and she was humming as she occasionally bent down to sniff a flower.
“I know I’ve been caught,” she said, kneeling to take in the scent of a red rose and getting a damp patch on one knee for her efforts. “You should not lurk in the trees, Mercia. Come into the sun, and greet the day with me.”
She ran her nose over the flower’s outer petals and gave him a soft, private smile that put him in mind of Italian Renaissance maidens who knew delightful, naughty secrets.
“Good morning, Countess. You’re up early.”
“As are you, as is the sun. And your dear friend, Mr. Chesterton.”
“My lazy friend. We were useless above a sedate trot, weren’t we, Chessie?”
The horse looked about, pricking his ears at the sound of his name. Christian swung down, gave theanimal a pat on the neck, and fell in step beside the countess, leading his gelding by the reins.
“Did you sleep well?” she asked. “My mama said it’s a polite inquiry, but the question strikes me as personal.”
“I rarely sleep well,” he said, simply for the pleasure of thwarting her small talk.
“Neither do I.” Her smile became sad, and he wondered why they hadn’t met up in the library again the previous evening, where something more interesting than sleep might have befallen them. “Restless nights are the price of adulthood, perhaps.” She slipped her hand through his arm, uninvited, as if she would…comfort him?
He stepped aside, untangling their arms, and lifted his hand to his lips to fashion a piercing whistle.
Except the fingers of his left hand no longer accommodated their boyhood competence. What came out was an odd huff that would in no wise get the attention of the stableboys. His right hand did no better, and he wanted to kick something—Anduvoir’s privy parts would do for a start. He took no consolation from the stray thought that Girard alone might understand why.
“We need a groom?” her ladyship guessed. “I’ll try.”
She put her fingers to her lips and got off a stout, shrill peal, which had the stable lads looking up from across the sprawling back garden and Chessie standing quite tall in his gear. A groom scampered over, swung up on Chessie, and took the horse off toward the stables.
The sight of the groom trotting Chessie away tothe stables tickled recollections Christian couldn’t quite retrieve, though the moment of déjà vu passed as quickly as it had arisen.
“What a good soul,” the countess said as Chessie obligingly decamped in the direction of his oats. “With a good memory too.”
“Very good,” Christian replied. “If Chessie hadn’t recognized me, I’m not sure I could have survived more stumbling about the French countryside, trying to prove my patrimony to the authorities.”
For some starving French farm wife would doubtless have killed the bearded scarecrow who’d forgotten how to talk.
“I’m glad Chesterton’s memory did not fail him.” Her ladyship slipped her arm through Christian’s again, then slid her hand down to encircle his left wrist. “What exactly befell your hand?”
War. Pain. Evil in the form of drunken corporals who likely could not have understood his English if hehadbroken his silence. “The French.”
They strolled along without further words, the lovely summer morning making the memory of the torture obscene, but less real too. Without him willing it, Christian’s mouth formed more sounds.
“The guards sought to wring a confession of treason from me, so even if I did escape, my own people would put me to death. The idea was not to cause physical pain for its own sake—though a certain variety of soldier enjoys torturing prisoners for that reason—butto destroy my sanity. A dream of escape often sustains a prisoner, and Girard wanted me to have that dream, probably to torment me as much as comfort me. Girard was livid when he realized what the guards had done with his pet duke.”
“The torture was merely a means to an end?” She spoke the word so casually, and her fingers laced through his.
Gently, but unapologetically. The way Girard had handled him after Anduvoir had departed to terrorize the camp whores.
“The goal of my captors was to rob me of my reason, to reduce a proud little dukeling to a puling, begging cipher. Breaking me became a game for them, and to some extent for me, too.”
As best he could figure. Why else would Girard have alternated inhuman treatment whenever Anduvoir came around with punctilious care and feeding?
“A game, like a duel to the death.”
