Page 65 of The Captive Duke
“I took days to get up the courage to assess the damage, because Anduvoir went about inflicting his mischief piecemeal over the course of what felt like hours… The pain was bearable, but the not knowing exactly where he’d stop, if he’d stop, how to live if he’d gelded me. Girard must have caught wind of what was going on—the entire garrison lived in fear of Girard—because he arrived in a temper and put a stop to matters before Anduvoir could do lasting injury of a more than cosmetic nature.”
Christian had formed the words…“if he gelded me,” but he’d lived the question for the balance of his captivity. Girard had said nothing upon his return, but had sent a physician to ensure the wounds were clean.
And he’d not taken any more leave. What did it say, that Christian had been reassured to know Girard had remained with him, behind the cold stone walls of the Château?
“When I had healed, Girard told me we’d had our last session with the knife. He promised me, no more cutting after that day, and I foolishly felt relief because he’d spared my face. I’d worried about that, which seems nigh hilarious in hindsight. The jailer lied, the corporals lied, Anduvoir habitually lied, but Girard was, in his diabolical way, honest. And why in God’s name am I telling you this?”
St. Just’s scowl was ferocious, but not…not frightening, notfrightened, and not disgusted either.
“You’re telling me, so at least one other person onthe face of the earth knows what you went through, so you’re not quite as alone in your nightmares and waking terrors. I respect your confidences.”
His hand tightened around his glass, and Christian expected him to stalk from the room. Instead, he muttered gratifyingly vulgar curses involving French commanders and a male donkey.
Then, “I respectyou, Mercia.God, do I respect you.”
He finished his drink in a swallow, flicked his gaze over Christian—a fulminating, assessing glance—then hurled his glass directly at a Severn family shield mounted high up on the opposite wall.
Brandy fragrance perfumed the air, and the dregs trickled down the surface of the shield, putting Christian in mind of the blood that had trickled down his legs until the stones beneath his bare feet had been slick with it.
“I’m selling the lot of this,” Christian said, passing his glass to St. Just. “Every knife, bolt, and bow. I want it out of my house.”
“Good,” St. Just said, nodding once, fiercely, then hurling Christian’s glass into the corner of the room with such force, the knight in battered armor went clattering to the carpet.
Twelve
“IWISH YOU COULD STAY LONGER,” GILLY SAID. SHEwalked with St. Just in the rose garden while Christian—His Grace—and Lucy gamboled ahead with the puppies.
“My family would not understand did they get wind I was tarrying in Surrey,” St. Just said, “though your household here is a wonderful excuse for tarrying.”
“His Grace has been more animated for having another fellow to racket about with, like the two puppies are more active than one would be. I thought he’d never stop plaguing you last night about your stud farm.”
“As much land as he controls, he’s smart to gather knowledge where he may,” St. Just said, “and support.” He put an emphasis on the last two words, confirming Gilly’s suspicion that the dark-haired colonel had a fine grasp of the subtleties.
“What need has the Duke of Mercia for support?” Gilly paused to pick a nearly blown damask rose, forgetting until she’d pricked herself that what they boasted in scent, the damasks matched in thorns.
“Allow me.” St. Just produced a folding knife withstartling ease, sliced her off a half-dozen pink flowers, and wrapped them in a monogrammed white silk handkerchief. “You know what need he has for support.”
St. Just was a handsome man, in a large, soldierly sort of way, with laughing green eyes many a debutante would envy, though his perception was in excellent working order. Gilly accepted the flowers from his hand, handkerchief and all.
“Mercia is doing much better,” she said. “He’s a great deal stronger, gained flesh, resumed his duties…he’s…”
“Lonely,” St. Just said. “He’s a soldier home from war, and he’s lonely and wondering if he endured all that suffering merely to balance ledgers, count lambs, and swill tea with the parson. I think, Countess, you might be lonely too.”
His words held an unspoken suggestion, and Gilly was abruptly not sorry at all the man was leaving. Yes, he’d distracted Christian from his preoccupation with her, but the cost was apparently these pithy insights from their—His Grace’s—guest.
“Is Lucy lonely as well, do you think?” Gilly put flippancy into the question.
“I have five younger sisters, so I will say yes, I think the child is also lonely, though less so with you and Mercia and the dogs underfoot. You will accept my thanks for your kind hospitality, my lady, and my sincere wishes that your loneliness will soon abate, for you are entitled to your supporters too.”
He bowed over her hand and sauntered off, callingto Lucy to demand a parting boon of her. He scooped the child up, whispered something in her ear, and had her dimpling and smiling the most coy smile Gilly could recall the girl producing.
Being the oldest of ten had indeed informed St. Just’s approach to command.
By the time St. Just put Lucy down, the grooms had brought around his horse, a big roan gelding with a coarse head and a sweet eye. St. Just and Christian walked off a few paces, speaking quietly, while Gilly tried to distract the puppies from sniffing about the horse’s feet.
The men ambled back, St. Just pulling on his gloves, while Christian sent the puppies off in the direction of the folly near the center of the garden. St. Just checked over his saddle and bridle, then grabbed his host in a hug and pounded him twice, hard, on the back.
Christian’s expression was momentarily perplexed, then…bashful, before he returned the blows, and St. Just let him go.
