The Captive (16 page)

And yet, his countess touched him, casually, easily, proud of her handiwork with his whiskers.

“You’re still lean,” she said, “but coming along nicely. No wonder Helene was such a braggart, having a swain like you for her own.”

The hand on his back radiated warmth, steadied, supported, and reassured, as it brought life and heat to places inside him long lost to light.

To be touched with such kindness…

“I missed a spot,” she said, taking her hand away and reaching for the damp towel on the windowsill. She went after blood dried on the slope of his chest, a brown streak that came away easily enough and soiled the towel.

As she scrubbed at him, the sunlight caught all manner of highlights in her hair, from red to bronze to flax to…

He put his finger under her chin and turned her face up to the light.

“Gillian, how in the bloody hell did you get such a goddamned ugly bruise?”

***

His Grace was breathtakingly handsome, more so than when he’d been a younger man, more so than when Gilly had first confronted him up in London a few weeks ago. Without his beard she could see he’d lost the worst of his gaunt edge, put on some weight, and some…confidence. Maybe a lot of confidence.

But he was glaring at her ferociously, for all his finger traced her hairline gently.

“I bumped my head when we lost a wheel about two hours from here.” She stood close to him, and his body heat, clean and scented with the ginger and lemon aftershave, threatened to swamp her wits.

“You put ice on this?” His touch moved over her forehead slowly, then he sank all four fingers into her hair and feathered the pad of his thumb over her bruise.

She could not move, did not want to move. “Ice wasn’t on hand. We were in open country, and I would rather have spent the time completing our journey than pestering each coaching inn for some unlikely ice.”

He set his lips to her bruise. Gilly’s insides rose up and sighed when his arms slipped around her, for when, when had anybody
ever
, kissed a hurt of hers better?

“John Coachman will rue the day,” he said.

The duke brought her against him so Gilly’s cheek was pressed against the scarred flesh of his chest. They’d shared embraces before, but nothing like this. His fingers massaged her nape, his flat male nipple was directly in her line of sight, and she felt empty and hungry and mortified all at once.

But oh,
feathers
, he was holding her snug and secure against the warm, muscular planes of his body, with his freshly shaved scent teasing her nose, and the rise and fall of his breathing a lullaby to her common sense.

She opened her mouth and turned her face to his chest. Not a kiss, certainly not a nibble. She inhaled, trying to get nearer to his essence, and bundled in, closing her eyes to the half-naked sight of him. She’d been terrified in that coach, and she was terrified in a different way in Christian Severn’s embrace.

Later, she’d think. Now, all she wanted was to
feel
. Feel him, feel them together, feel her body coming to life with all the terror and determination of a spirit first emerging into the world.

“Gillian?”

She felt his voice as much as heard it, and understood he was putting a question to her. Before she could lose her nerve, she framed his newly smooth jaw with her hands. He could turn his face aside, thwart what her body insisted she needed, but he only pressed his mouth to the heel of her hands, left and right.

Then she found him with her lips. Went up on her toes, and sealed her mouth to his, having no plan beyond that.

His arms came around her, as snug as an anchor’s chains around their capstan, giving her purchase and balance, and most of all, giving her relief from the fear he’d pull away and turn from her.

He stroked a hand over her hair, slowly, and Gilly’s desperation eased. She needn’t gobble him up; he’d allow a little savoring.

She followed his lead, trailing her fingers through his golden hair, glorying in the silky abundance of it, shaping his skull, tracing his nape, learning him in each bodily detail.

To touch…
to
caress
, to surrender to tenderness and desire and the fierce, awful longing.

He lifted his mouth from hers and traced his lips along her temple, then down, over her jaw, and Gilly understood: he wanted to touch as well, and she would glory in that too. She stood still for him as he inhaled through his nose, his breath breezing warmly past her ear. He nuzzled her neck and made her shiver with the pleasure of it, then teased the corner of her mouth with a half kiss.

She dimly perceived he was withdrawing though, easing her down, and her disappointment was tempered only by the knowledge he abandoned her reluctantly. When he’d mapped each of her features thoroughly with his mouth, when his hands had traced each knob and bump in her spine, he came to rest, his chin on her crown, his arms securely around her.

“Countess, you must forgive me.”

Countess, not Gillian. He didn’t let her go, and Gilly hid her face against him. Goddamn him, he sounded genuinely remorseful when she ought to be the one mustering regret.

“We have committed no wrong requiring forgiveness.”

“You are widowed and alone, under my protection if you’re under anybody’s, and I have taken advantage of your grief.”

His hand moved over her hair, cradling her head to him as if to emphasize his role of protector, but was simple protection ever a matter of such gentle handling?

“I am not grieving. I am
celebrating
.”

She tore herself from his arms and stomped into his bedroom. When she passed him a dressing gown, he took it.

“I am sorry,” he said again. “No woman, much less a lady, much less
you
, should see me thus.” He shrugged into the dressing gown, and Gilly wanted to weep for the loss of the sight of him, even as she knew that blue velvet garment was all that remained between her dignity and utter wantonness.

“Your modesty becomes you, Mercia, but if you think I find you anything but appallingly beautiful, you are an idiot.”

Idiot?
Had that word come from her mouth, and directed at him?

He knotted the belt. Slowly, slowly one corner of his mouth kicked up, then the other. Only to settle back almost immediately.

“You were married to an old man,” he said, expression shuttering. “Perhaps compared to him, even I fare tolerably.”

He found a brush on the windowsill and used his reflection in the shaving mirror to bring some order to his hair, but didn’t queue it back.

“You torment me, leaving it loose.” She snatched up a black hair ribbon and marched over to him. He stood still while she bound his hair back.

“Countess…”

“Gillian, I should think. I’ve shaved you and dressed your hair.”

The smile again, even more fleeting, as if he hadn’t the stamina for it. “And kissed me.”

“I wasn’t the only one doing the kissing, Your Grace.”

She clung to that. She’d interested him at least a kiss or two worth.

“To my confoundment and delight, I did kiss you. And enjoyed it thoroughly, but, my lady…I cannot allow myself to take such advantage again.”

“Whyever not? I’m a blessed, benighted widow. I’ve finally reached the point in life where advantage may be taken.”

“No, it may not,” he said, a little of the duke infusing his voice. “You bestow favors where you will, with discretion, but you shall not be taken advantage of.”

“We are at an impasse,” she said, trying to fathom what he wasn’t saying. Some issue or insight lurked in this ducal posturing, something he was talking around. “I would have us kiss again. You are telling me you enjoyed what just passed between us, but will deny me in future out of concern for what or whom? Me?”

She thumped down on his sofa, sure in her bones the Almighty had put men on earth to drive women barmy. “I can assure you I’d consider it the greater regard did you indulge my foolish impulses, Your Grace.”

Admitting that caused a blush to rise and made her determined to keep her yammering mouth shut, lest she lose her self-control entirely and beg him for more kisses, more caresses.

He sat beside her and took her left hand in his right.

She wanted to snatch her hand away, but also to climb into his lap and resume kissing him. He traced her knuckles with his left hand while she felt him marshaling arguments, preparing to ease her down gently again.

“I can barely tie back my own hair,” he said. “After several clumsy attempts, I manage something like a queue, but it’s tedious, and inclines me to go about like a half-groomed barbarian instead.”

“Most unmarried men of any station have a valet—”

He shook his head. “I cannot abide to have another man tend me.” He wasn’t proud of that; the humiliation was in his voice.

“You allow me to tend you.”

“I could toss you across the room with my bad hand. And you are not a man.”

Yes, he could toss her across the room with one hand. He was both taller and, at least recently, more fit than Greendale had ever been, and Gilly had never been bothered by that, which was…interesting.

“You did notice my gender. I’m encouraged, Your Grace.”

“You don’t want to hear my explanations and apologies. I can only apologize for that as well.”

“Your excuses.”

“You are asking me, in essence, to compromise you.” He did not sound angry, so much as amused—drat and blast him. “Whether with ill-timed kisses, or indiscretions of a more passionate nature. You would regret it, you would hate me, and while I do not deny you’d find pleasure in it—I would insist on pleasure for you—your eventual distaste I could not abide. Not all of my scars have been revealed to you, my lady.”

He stared straight ahead, as if puzzling out the honor of it for himself.

And Gilly puzzled out a few things too, holding his hand as the late-afternoon sun cast the room in a mellow light.

He needed her to think well of him.

He held her reputation in significant regard.

He thought her attraction to him was a function of grief or abstinence, not unique to him, not something out of the ordinary for her.

And he desired her. In his touch, in what he said, in what he did not say, the Duke of Mercia desired her.

And most important of all, something Gilly had no doubt divined on an intuitive level but had needed to hear, too: he’d promised her that if they were intimate, she would find the experience pleasurable.

He’d said he’d insist on that, and she believed him.

***

“Oh, aye, it were a bad, bad moment.”

John Coachman banged his tankard in a signal for a refill, which the gentleman sharing the snug with him would no doubt pay for. The gentleman was buying, said his uncle had been a coachman, and the gent always stood a coachman to a drink when traveling from Town.

John was ever fond of good English ale, and the Lion and Cock served some of the best summer ale in Surrey. The day had been long and hot, mostly spent loading up Lady Greendale’s things from the old earl’s place and piling them high on the wagon. The return trip to Severn would be a thirsty undertaking, indeed.

“We’d been making good time from Town,” John said, “for her ladyship were keen to get back to Severn.”

“Fancies running the duke’s household, does she?”

John blinked at his ale, because the comment bordered on impertinent, and come to that, the fellow talked a bit toplofty to be a coachman’s nephew. Might even be some Frog or some American in his accent.

“She fancies her wee niece,” he said. “Devoted to the girl, used to come over regular when Her Grace were alive. She’s a widow to boot. Where else can she go but to family?”

“Where else, indeed?”

The gentleman took a sip of his ale, and John had the passing thought he looked out of place with his Town clothes, his Town gig, and his Town airs. The Lion and Cock was a posting inn, true, but the humblest variety of the species.

“So there we were,” John said, “the team a-cantering along, and I look down and see the front wheel wobblin’ on its pins.”

“But nobody came to any harm.
Quel
dommage.
”

John caught the impatience in the man’s voice. Town fellows weren’t likely to appreciate a well-told story.

“Thanks be to Almighty God.” John banged his tankard for emphasis. “An’ out come her ladyship, calm as you please. Told me to send a groom for the wheel, and to put the feed bags on my team.”

“A cool head, then, for a lady.”

This didn’t seem to please the gentleman either, but ale wasn’t a gentleman’s drink, so John forgave him his mood.

“You have that aright. But beg pardon, sir. What did you say your name was?”

Five days.

Five days since Christian had held his countess against his naked chest, tasted her sweet kisses, and felt her hands moving over his body with desire. He could hardly credit the memory.

Helene had never touched him like that, not when he was whole and hale and his mind free of shadows and memories. Not when he was blessed with a younger man’s exuberant erotic responses, not when he was newly wed and honestly trying to forge some sort of friendship with his duchess.

Before his marriage, there had been women, of course there had been, and he’d enjoyed them and regarded it as his most enjoyable obligation to see that they enjoyed him as well.

But those had been professionals or bored wives who’d long since met any marital obligations, experienced ladies of the world. They’d liked bedding a lusty young duke, liked being seen on his arm, liked dancing the supper waltz with him.

He’d been a…sexual trophy, just as for Girard, he’d been a trophy of war. The whole notion made him want to retch.

“Be there some reason we’re stopping back at Timwood’s so soon, Yer Grace?”

Hancock’s homely face was a study in impassivity, and Christian couldn’t recall a previous occasion when Hancock had questioned his employer’s directives.

“I have a reason,” Christian said, putting thoughts of his countess aside. “Timwood breeds those enormous dogs.”

“Mastiffs,” Hancock said. “As his da and grandda did before him. Best in the shire for tracking, and a fair dog for work too.”

“And nigh big as ponies. I want one, possibly two.”

“Two be a mighty lot of dog.”

“Severn is a lot of house.” While the ladies in that house were diminutive.

Mrs. Timwood was so overcome at a second visit from “the dook” in two weeks she about quivered herself into an apoplexy. Mr. Timwood, when he understood His Grace was interested in a puppy, lost his deferential air.

“David, Jenny, go dust up the whelping box and let Duchess know she’s to have visitors.”

Christian was being announced to a dog. He rather liked the idea. “Your bitch answers to Duchess?”

Timwood grinned. “Me da named her, and a right duchess she is too. Excellent bloodlines all around, but a sweet nature, for all she’s protective of those pups. Eight of them, there are, four and four, dogs and bitches. Not a fault in the bunch.”

“To which sire did you breed her?”

Christian had asked the right question, for Mr. Timwood launched into a diatribe laced with more begats and out-ofs than could be found in a book of the Old Testament. By the time the three men were assailed with the pungent scent of the kennel, Christian was certain the bitch’s lineage went back at least to the Conqueror’s dog, if not to some pup Jesus had played with as a boy.

“That ’un be the runt,” Timwood said, though the thing wasn’t any smaller than its siblings, that Christian could see. “He’ll be big enough, but he hangs back, see. He’s smarter than the rest, mayhap, waitin’ and seein’ rather than scrabbling away to get to the tit. There’s always another tit, ain’t there, fella? But he’ll not get the attention, the way he is.”

Timwood scratched the little beast’s ear, then went on to regale Christian with the virtues of the other seven puppies. They were geniuses, according to Timwood, ready to learn to fetch His Grace’s slippers, light his pipe, saddle his horse, and hunt up his dinner. They’d offer protection, companionship, and cut a dash on the street in Town…

And all the while the runt curled up by himself at the side of Duchess’s roomy whelping box.

“Who plays with the runt?” Christian asked.

“This ’un.” Timwood picked up a wriggling ball of puppy. “The dimwit. He’s too good-natured. He’ll work his heart out for ye, but don’t be trusting him to guard the chickens. He’ll cadge a nap when Renard comes by for a visit.”

The dog hung in Timwood’s big hands, panting happily, looking every bit as stupid as his breeder suggested.

“I’ll take the runt and the dimwit.”

A look passed between Hancock and Timwood, the visual manifestation of, “Oh, the Quality!” Christian allowed them their silent communication and scratched a silky puppy ear.

“Come week’s end, this one would have gone into the rain barrel,” Timwood said, holding up the runt. “And now he’s gone for a dook’s dog. God looks after fools, drunks, and strays, aye? To drown the pup woulda hurt me heart—Missus usually sees to such things—but he’ll have a big mouth to feed once he’s weaned. He’s good-lookin’ enough, though. He’ll do for ya, Dook.”

Christian accepted the dog, narrowly avoiding having his face bathed by a curious pink tongue.

“And this one. Stone stupid, he is, but yer not buyin’ him for his brains.” He passed the dimwit to Hancock, who suffered the dog to lick his chin.

“You’re sure they’re ready to be weaned?” Christian distracted the puppy by letting it sniff his riding glove.

“We’ve been feedin’ them from the dish for the past week. Duchess is looking a mite peaked, according to the missus. Milk and gravy to start, some juicy bones for their puppy teeth, and soon, any table scraps ye got.”

Chessie sniffed the puppy, then looked away, as if to indicate he cared not one whit for such a small excuse for a beast. Christian aborted his original plan, which had been to transport the pups in his saddlebags. He settled for holding the thing in one hand and guiding the horse with the other, while Hancock managed similarly.

“Can’t say as I’ve ever ridden with a dog,” Hancock observed.

“Nor have I. Pay him more than he asks.”

“Beg pardon?”

“He’ll try to gouge us on general principles, but if he makes a fine profit on the runt and the dimwit from this litter, he might try harder to sell the next runt and dimwit to some preening earl’s son. I might be able to connect him with a London factor for that express purpose.”

Hancock dodged more chin-licking. “May I ask what you intend to use these beasts for, sir?”

“Leverage.”

Thankfully, it was beyond Hancock’s ability to ask His Grace what on earth he meant.

***

“Come, princess.”

Christian held out his hand to his daughter. They had a routine now. Late morning, after he’d ridden out, after he’d spent several hours with his stewards and his correspondence—and his grooming and penmanship—he went up to the nursery and sprang Lucy from her studies.

They strolled the garden, examining the flowers now rioting in abundance. They rode out, with Damsel on a leading line, or Lucy up before her papa on Chessie. Twice they’d taken a rod and tackle to the estate’s nearest fishing hole and dropped a line.

Today, Christian had other plans.

The best part of these outings was that Lucy insisted Gillian join them, and this spared Christian having to hunt the lady down.

She’d become a ghost, sending her regrets at meal times, no longer drifting down to the library with her books at night, barely sparing him two words when they passed in the corridors.

And it killed something in him to see her diminished in any way. She was putting distance between them, salvaging her dignity in the face of what she could only regard as his rejection. So he opened his campaign to preserve their friendship with the most effective weapons he could muster.

“Come along, Countess.” He held out his left hand to her, while Lucy kited around on his right. “Lucy and I must inspect the stables, lest the lads think they can laze away a pretty summer day.”

“You two run along. I’ve a few things to see to.”

“They can wait, right, Lucy?”

His unwitting conspirator let go of his hand, crossed to the countess, and dragged her by the wrist over to Christian. He seized the lady’s hand in his own.

“My princess has spoken, as it were. Go gracefully to your fate.”

Gillian’s blue eyes reflected exasperation, but also something he hadn’t expected to see: hurt. She tried to mask it, but it caused his smile to falter.

“Please, Countess. I’ve been shut up with the ledgers all morning, and I would have this respite with the fair ladies of my household.”

She slipped her fingers through his. “Very well, but we mustn’t linger too long. Lucy has sums to do, and I have correspondence of my own.”

“Who commands your letters?” he asked as Lucy took his free hand and fell in step beside him.

“Marcus Easterbrook,” she said, her tone gratifyingly impatient. “I can report to him that my things are removed from Greendale.” Her usually confident stride hitched. “
He
is Greendale, now. How…odd.”

“It is odd,” Christian said, resisting the urge to carry Lucy, because that would mean dropping the countess’s hand. “You finally get comfortable with your courtesy title, assure yourself the real title holder will live forever, and then—poof!—he’s gone, and you’re the duke, or the earl, and everybody calls you something you don’t answer to, and looks to you for decisions you’ve no idea how to make.”

“I don’t think Easterbrook—Marcus—will be quite so at sea,” the countess said. “He’s waited an age to succeed to the title, though he and the old earl were hardly close.”

“They were uncle and nephew?” Though Christian didn’t care for the topic particularly, he was glad they were having some sort of conversation—while they held hands.

“Great-nephew, the title being one preserved through the female line. Their visits were mostly a matter of Marcus putting up with his lordship’s condescension. Marcus came to Greendale when on leave, but was always relieved to be on his way to Severn when proprieties had been observed.”

“He came by in my absence?”

“He was dutiful, and your heir.”

“Not once Evan was born.” Lucy tugged on Christian’s hand, dragging him over to a bed of roses, and forcing him to give up his connection to the countess. “You know, princess, when you don’t speak to me, it means you communicate more often with your touch. You pull me about, turn my head, touch my arm… I’m not sure I miss your words as much as I’d miss this.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the countess was listening to him. Good. She thought he would not compromise her, but it was more a matter of he
could
not, despite wanting to.

But neither would he let her slip into indifference when they could be friends—good friends.

“Maybe you should not encourage Lucy to remain silent,” she said as he knelt to sniff a rose. “Maybe we should all stop speaking until she relents.”

He rose, pleased to feel the motion fluid and no particular strain on his thighs or knees. “Then perhaps I should have to touch you more, Countess, and you would have to touch me, hmm?”

He took her hand again, she didn’t fight him, and they managed to reach the stables without trading any more salvos. Even sparring with her was a pleasure though, and Christian kept his powder dry mostly out of deference to his daughter.

“Princess, I was out with Hancock yesterday,” he said as they ambled down the barn aisle. “I came across a little fellow who demanded to make your acquaintance. He doesn’t speak much, not so a duke could understand him, but he managed to insist that you befriend him.”

Lucy cocked her head, her expression solemn and puzzled. The countess was pretending to pet Chessie, but she was listening too. He knew it by the angle of her head, and the slight tension in her shoulders.

“Where is he, this stray fellow demanding to be your friend? Come, I’ll show you.”

He drew Lucy farther down the aisle, while the countess trailed them. When he opened the half door to an empty stall, Lucy peered around her papa’s side into the gloom.

“He’s resting,” Christian said. “No doubt exhausted from chewing old boots, cadging treats, and tripping up the lads.”

Lucy dashed around him to kneel before two puppies dozing on an old horse blanket. The puppies blinked at her sleepily, yawned, and let her pet them. She held a hand up to her father, two fingers raised.

“Yes, there are two.” Mostly because carrying eight puppies home on horseback would not have been practical.

The countess came up beside him. “Oh,
my
. Christian, what have you done?” She brushed past him to kneel in the straw next to Lucy. “Lucy, just look at them. Look at those paws, and their ears, such silky precious ears, and those handsome eyes…”

Lucy cocked her head, asking the question the countess would not.

“This one…” Christian stroked a hand over the runt, who appeared to have grown in less than twenty-four hours, “is for my dearest Lucy.” He handed his daughter her puppy, as its sibling struggled to his paws. “And this one is for my dearest Gillian. He has no sense, I’m told, but he’s much in need of a friend, lest he stumble into a rain barrel and come to harm. You’re good at befriending strays, my dear. I had to commend him into your keeping.”

“I’m good at…” She cradled the dog to her cheek. “You wretched, awful, odious, low-down…
Oh, Christian.
” Then the dog was licking Christian’s ear, for the countess had leaned in to hug him as tightly as she could with a wiggling puppy between them. Christian wrapped an arm around the lady, gave her a squeeze, then forced himself to lean away.

“I gather you like your pets, ladies?”

Lucy nodded emphatically, the dog cradled in her embrace.

“What shall you name him, Lucy?”

She pointed without hesitation, and Christian followed the line of her finger.

“Rake?”

She nodded.

“Interesting choice for the fellow who wasn’t the most outgoing of the lot,” Christian said. “You may call him Rake, while I shall call him Runt. This one was Dimwit, but the countess may choose another
nom
de
maison
for him.”

The French came out easily, naturally, the way any English aristocrat normally peppered his speech with French—and without even a frisson of nausea.

Interesting. He had the disconcerting thought that Girard would have been proud of him.

Christian assisted Gillian to her feet, keeping an arm around her waist. “Let’s introduce them to the gardens, shall we?”

Lucy put her puppy on the ground, while the countess kept hers in her arms until they reached the garden. Christian strolled along, treasuring the feel of Gillian at his side, silently promising the dog years at the hearth if he continued to provoke such a sentimental mood from the countess.