To Desire a Devil (27 page)

He was a passionate man.

Even if that passion wasn’t for her, she admired it.

Beatrice stared into those black eyes, so physically similar and so spiritually apart from the living, breathing man. Marriage
to him would not be easy. There was a very good chance that it might turn into a disaster, in fact. But to save Uncle Reggie,
she would take that chance.

The sitting room door opened and Reynaud stepped in, unconsciously standing next to his painted image. He wore his breeches
and shirt. His gaze found her, and then he turned to see what she’d been looking at. He studied the portrait of himself for
a long moment before looking back at her.

“Are you all right?”

She nodded.

He paced toward her, his eyes never leaving her form. When he was directly in front of her, he stopped and held out his hand.
“Will you marry me, Beatrice?”

She placed her hand in his. “Yes.”

Before Longsword and the princess stood a huge black tower—the castle’s keep. Longsword advanced upon the tower warily, the
princess behind him, but the tower remained ominously quiet. A single huge wooden door stood on the tower’s facade, its surface
scarred and charred as if it had withstood some terrible battle. Longsword pulled open the door, and beside him Princess Serenity
gasped.

For inside the tower, her father the king lay bound in chains. Around the king flew three dragons, each larger than the last.
And the smallest dragon was twice as big as the one Longsword had killed just the day before….

—from
Longsword

The freshly turned earth was already frosted over, hard, frozen, and final. Beatrice bent and placed her handful of Michaelmas
daisies on the grave. There wasn’t a stone yet, merely a wooden marker. The words jeremy oates had been crudely scrawled on
it.

“I’m going to marry him,” she whispered to the pitiful marker.

The words were carried away by the wind, whipping through the small graveyard. As if to emphasize her sorrow, the day was
overcast and gray. Jeremy’s parents had chosen to bury him in a little churchyard outside of London proper. It wasn’t even
a family plot. Perhaps they thought by hiding him so far out of the way, they could forget him altogether. Jeremy would’ve
smiled and reminded her that a tiny graveyard was just as good as a cathedral when one was dead.

Beatrice shook her head and frowned fiercely to hold back the tears. Jeremy wouldn’t have cared, but she did. This was no
way to memorialize a good man. She closed her eyes for a moment, simply remembering him, and the tears came anyway, whether
she wanted them to or not.

When she finally opened her eyes again, her face was cold and wet, and her head was beginning to ache, but oddly she felt
better.

She wiped her cheeks and glanced at the churchyard gate. Reynaud leaned against the stone wall there, waiting patiently for
her. The drive here had taken over an hour, and he hadn’t made any complaints. Although he hadn’t visited her room in the
week since she’d agreed to marry him, Reynaud had made sure to attend her when he could. Of course, he was a busy man. He
was in daily consultation with solicitors about the estate and his title, and he met with his friend Lord Vale very often
as well. Beatrice frowned. She wasn’t quite sure what they discussed, but she was glad that they seemed to have recovered
from their initial animosity.

She knelt to touch the frozen earth over Jeremy’s grave one last time, and then she stood and dusted her hands. In the spring
she’d bring some lily-of-the-valley pips to plant here. That would keep him company. Beatrice began picking her way back to
the carriage and Reynaud. The little churchyard was sadly neglected, the stone path overgrown with weeds. The wind blew her
skirts against her legs, and she shivered as she neared Reynaud.

“Finished?” He put a hand under her elbow to steady her.

“Yes.” She looked up into his stern face. “Thank you for bringing me.”

He nodded. “He was a good man.”

“Yes, he was,” she murmured.

He handed her into the carriage and then climbed in after her, knocking against the ceiling to signal the coachman. She watched
out the window as they pulled away from the cemetery, then looked at him. “You’re still set on a marriage by special license?”

“I’d like to be already married by the time I go before parliament,” he said. “If it bothers you, we can plan a celebratory
ball in the new year.”

She nodded. After the passion of his seduction, the practicality of his plans for their marriage was slightly dampening. She
remembered Lottie’s words about a gentleman filling a position with his choice of wife. Wasn’t that what she herself was doing?
Reynaud needed her as his wife so that he could convince others he was sane. Nathan needed Lottie as his wife to further his
career. The only difference was that Lottie had believed her husband loved her.

Beatrice had no such illusions.

She straightened a bit and cleared her throat. “You never told me how you eventually escaped the Indians. Did Sastaretsi give
up his hatred of you?”

He flattened his mouth impatiently. “Do you really wish to hear this tale? It’s boring, I assure you.”

His stalling tactics only made her curiosity keener. “Please?”

“Very well.” He looked away and was silent a moment.

“Sastaretsi?” she prompted softly.

“He never did give up his hatred of me.” Reynaud was staring out the window, his long nose and strong chin in profile against
the wine-red squabs behind him. “But that first winter was hard, and it was all we could do to simply find enough food to
feed everyone. I was an able-bodied hunter, if not a very good one at first, so I think he laid aside his animosity for a
little while. We were all weak from hunger anyway.”

“How dreadful.” She looked down at her lap, examining her fine kid gloves. She’d never wanted for food in her life, but she’d
seen beggars on the street now and again. She tried to imagine Reynaud with that gaunt face, that glittering, desperate expression
in his black eyes. She didn’t like the thought of him suffering so terribly.

“It wasn’t amusing, certainly,” he said. “I remember once finding a she-bear. They crawl into the biggest trees, into holes
in the wood, to sleep the winter away. Gaho’s husband showed me how to look for the claw marks on tree trunks that meant a
bear lay above. After we’d killed the bear, they skinned a part of it and ate the fat without waiting to light a fire and
cook the meat.”

“Dear God.” Beatrice wrinkled her nose in disgust.

He looked at her. “I ate it as well. The flesh steamed in the cold winter air, and it tasted of blood, and I gulped it down
anyway. It was life. We’d had no food for three days prior to that.”

She bit her lip and nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he said quietly. “I survived.”

He folded his arms across his chest then and leaned his head against the squabs, his eyes closed as if he slept, though she
doubted he did.

She bowed her head. He’d survived, and she was glad, truly, but at what cost? What he’d endured had changed him. It was as
if he’d passed through a fiery furnace, burning away all the parts of him that had been soft or sentimental, leaving a fire-hardened
inner core, impervious to pain or feeling, perhaps impervious to love as well.

She shivered at the thought. Surely he felt something for her?

They spent the rest of the carriage ride home in silence, and it was only when the carriage slowed before Blanchard House
that she glanced out the window.

She leaned a little forward. “There’s another carriage blocking the way.”

“Is there?” Reynaud said absentmindedly, his eyes still closed.

“I wonder who it could be?” Beatrice mused. “Now a gentleman is getting out, and he’s handing down a very elegantly dressed
lady. Oh, and there’s a small boy as well. Reynaud?”

She said the last because he’d suddenly sat up and twisted around to look out the window.

“Christ,” he breathed.

“Do you know them?”

“It’s Emeline,” he said. “It’s my sister.”

H
E’D DREAMED OF
this moment for nights on end during his captivity: the day when he’d finally see his family again. The day when he’d see
Emeline.

Reynaud climbed slowly down from his carriage, turning to help Beatrice alight. Her face was excited, beaming with curiosity,
wonder, and joy, as if she reflected all the many emotions he ought to be feeling right now. He hooked her hand through his
elbow and approached the small group of people gathered on the top step of Blanchard House. The man was turned toward them
with a face that looked impassive from this distance, but it was the woman Reynaud focused on. She’d only just now noticed
their presence and was turning quickly. Her face went blank, and then an expression of rapturous joy spread over it.

“Reynaud!” she cried, and started down the steps. The man—it must be Hartley—caught her under the arm, slowing her, and for
a moment Reynaud felt anger rise in his breast.

Until he saw why Hartley urged her to slow down.

“Oh, my,” Beatrice breathed.

Emeline was quite obviously enormously pregnant. Seven years ago, she’d been a young mother and a bride. Now she was married
to a different man and was expecting her second child. He’d missed so much.

So much.

He and Beatrice reached the bottom of the steps just as Emeline and Hartley made the street. Emeline stopped suddenly, staring
at him, then reached out a hand, touching his cheek in wonder.

“Reynaud,” she breathed. “Reynaud, is it you?”

He covered her fingers with his hand, blinking back the moisture in his eyes. “Yes, it’s me, Emmie.”

“Oh, Reynaud!” And suddenly she was in his arms, and he was awkwardly hugging her close around the bulk of her belly. She
felt so sweet, his little sister, and he closed his eyes, simply holding her for a moment.

She pulled away at last and smiled, the same smile she’d had since the age of ten, and then frowned. “Oh, fustian! I’m going
to cry. Samuel, I need to go inside.”

Hartley whisked her inside the town house, and Reynaud and Beatrice followed more sedately. The boy trailed his mother, but
he darted glances over his shoulder at him. Reynaud remembered Daniel as an infant, hardly able to walk the last time he’d
seen him. Now he was almost as tall as his mother.

Reynaud nodded at the boy. “I’m your uncle.”

“I know,” Daniel said, dropping back to walk beside them as they moved down the hall. “I’ve got a pair of your pistols.”

Reynaud’s eyebrows rose. “Do you?”

“Yes.” The boy looked a bit worried. “I say, can I keep them?”

Beside him, Beatrice smothered a giggle. Reynaud turned a quelling look on her before addressing the boy. “Yes, you may.”

They were in the sitting room now, and Beatrice left his side to order tea and some type of refreshments.

“Did the Indians draw those birds around your eye?” the boy asked.

“Daniel.” Hartley spoke for the first time, his voice even. He said nothing more, but the boy ducked his head.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

Reynaud nodded and took a seat. “Yes, the Indians tattooed my face.”

Beatrice returned at that moment and met his gaze. Her eyes were filled with sympathy, and the sight warmed his chest. She
sat down next to him and tucked her hand under his.

She cleared her throat. “I’m Beatrice Corning.”

He squeezed her hand in gratitude.

Emeline sat a little straighter, rather like a birding dog at the sight of a grouse. “Tante Cristelle said you were engaged
to be married to my brother.”

Beatrice glanced at him and then said brightly, “Yes. We hope to have a small wedding soon. Miss Molyneux didn’t tell us you
were coming. Were you expected?”

“Evidently not.” Emeline pursed her lips. “I wrote, of course, to say that we’d be coming, but the letter must’ve gone astray.
Samuel has business to attend to in England, and I’d hoped to visit with Tante. As it was, we quite surprised her with our
arrival in London, and then she startled us with her news that Reynaud was alive.”

“Wonderful news.” Beatrice smiled.

“Yes.” Emeline cast a quick, curious glance between him and Beatrice. “I’m sorry, but aren’t you related to the present Earl
of Blanchard?”

“The usurper,” Reynaud growled.

“I’m his niece,” Beatrice said.

“And my soon-to-be wife,” he stated.

“Hmm. About that,” Emeline murmured. “Tante said you’d only been home for less than a month.”

Beatrice stirred beside him. “I’m afraid Reynaud swept me off my feet.”

Emeline was frowning now, which irritated Reynaud. Seven years apart and his baby sister thought she could tell him how to
live his life? He opened his mouth but felt a sharp elbow in his side. Surprised, he glanced down at Beatrice, who was looking
quite sternly at him.

As if by some feminine cue, the talk turned to lighter matters then. Hartley explained his business dealings in Boston and
London, and Emeline told the story of how they’d met and what had happened since Reynaud’s absence, her news little different
than that he’d heard from Tante Cristelle, but it was wonderful to hear her voice. Reynaud let the talk flow about him, content
to simply sit and listen to his sister and Beatrice. This was his family now.