Page 52 of The Captive Duke
Another shake of her head, a little broader smile.
“And when he becomes dyspeptic, he’ll present his last three meals right at your feet after he’s partially digested them, including such bones and hair as will not allow of proper alimentation. We don’t want that going on in the house, do we?”
She grinned at him, and his heart gave up a burden laid there not only by his foul language in the nursery, but by some half-starved French cats and the predators among whom they abided.
“Well, then, no more cats in the nursery. Agreed?”
She stuck out her hand for him to shake. He did, then swung her up onto the ladies’ mounting block. The grooms led Chessie over, Christian climbed aboard, then hauled Lucy up before him.
They had a perfectly lovely ride, with Lucy pointing and bouncing in the saddle when she wanted to direct his attention to something—a late lamb stotting around his mama in the high summer grass, hedge apples in bloom, a swan on the small lake.
He let Chessie wander under low-hanging tree limbs, so he had an excuse to bend close and cadge a soapy whiff of his daughter’s clean, silky hair.
“You know, princess, I would keep your secrets, did you want to whisper them to me. You need not speak aloud, but merely whisper a word or two in my ear someday, should you no longer desire to be so alone in your silence.”
She went still before him, and he wished he could see her expression.
“But your silence is precious as well. I’ll tell you a secret, if you like.”
She nodded, cautiously.
“I had pets, in…France. You’ll think me foolish—Ithink me foolish, for that matter, but they were my only friends. Do you know of whom I speak? Little fellows with no weapons, no big teeth or fierce claws, helpless little beasts who wanted only a morsel to eat, and to live out their days in peace. Can you guess who they were?”
What was he doing, telling this to a child?
But she was listening; he knew she was listening.
“They were very quiet, like you, quiet as mice, for they were mice. They came around looking for crumbs, hiding from the castle cats, and I let them eat what fell from my plate. We became great friends, the mice and I. We endured our privations together.”
But the mice had never become tame, had never quite given up their wariness, no matter how cold or hungry they were. He’d admired those small, soft, helpless creatures, and as miserable as his rations had been, he’d never begrudged the mice their crumbs.
Lucy said nothing, but she relaxed back against her papa.
She no doubt thought he was teasing, but he was damn near tears, and finished the ride as silent as his little princess.
Lucy must have picked up on his mood—she was a bright child, after all—because when he went to swing her down off the high mounting block used by the ladies, she clung to him for a moment, her arms lashed around his neck, her face buried against his shoulder.
A hug, for the man who’d had no friends save the mice, from the daughter who could not tell him she loved him.
Ten
CHRISTIAN TRIED NOT TO SPEND HIS DAYS LOOKINGdown the drive, anticipating Gillian’s return from Town. She’d sent a note along telling him she was detained by sartorial matters and would not be back until week’s end.
So he stayed busy, which wasn’t difficult.
The land steward, Hancock, was happy to ride out with him as the weather permitted; the tenants were pleased to have his lordship “drop by” on a schedule Hancock carefully arranged. Vicar came to call again, a fifteen-minute ordeal without Gillian smiling and chattering over the tea service.
Christian had nightmares, of course, worse for Gillian’s absence, or for something, but it helped—some—that he was gradually adding activity to his day.
Having word of Girard’s whereabouts would have helped more.
St. Just had warned Christian about others held prisoner, fellows who’d taken months to regain enough health to rejoin their regiments. Christian’s body wasn’t taking months. He was putting on muscle, his teeth andgums were restored to reliable use, but his mind wasn’t coming along at such a spanking pace.
The nightmares were to be expected, but at least once every day, he’d hear a door slam and his heart would pound for no reason.
Candlelight glinting off a paring knife could make his lungs seize.
He’d attempt some simple task with his left hand—tying a cravat—and fail so miserably he wanted to destroy all in his reach.
