To Desire a Devil (32 page)

He shook his head slowly and closed his eyes as if to blot out a sight. “When I came to Gaho, I only knew her by her dress.
I turned her and her brown eyes were staring up at me through a mask of blood. They were dull and lifeless. She’d been scalped.”

“I’m so sorry.”

His head jerked up, his face hardening. “Don’t be. She was an old Indian woman. She meant nothing to me.”

“But, Reynaud”—Beatrice sat up—“you said she saved you, treated you as a son. I know you were fond of her.”

“You don’t understand.” He picked up his knife and stared at it a moment—so long she thought he might never finish. Then he
said softly, “The band that attacked Gaho and her family was the same one she’d tried to make peace with five years before.
The one I was to marry into.”

Beatrice inhaled, not saying anything, simply watching him.

“If I was fond of her, I would’ve made that marriage. I would’ve ensured her village’s safety. I didn’t. I had only one goal
the entire time I spent in her family—to come home. Nothing was more important.” He slid the knife into the sheath at his
waist. “After I buried Gaho, I spent months tramping through the woods, evading Indians and Frenchmen alike until I reached
British territory. And every step of the way, I reminded myself that I’d sacrificed Gaho and her family for this freedom.”

“Reynaud—”

“No.” He looked at her sharply. “You wanted to know, so let me finish. I had very little funds and no friends. When I reached
a port, I signed on as a cook on a ship to pay my passage home.”

“You were ill and feverish when you got here,” she whispered.

He nodded. “I lived on dried meat and berries for months in the woods. By the time I made civilization, I was mostly skin
and bones, and the fare on a ship isn’t particularly nourishing. I contracted some illness from the sailors and was feverish
when we docked in London.”

“You’re lucky to’ve survived,” she said soberly.

“I was driven,” he said. “I wasn’t going to die without seeing home again. And I made a vow when I stepped foot on that ship:
This was the last time I’d ever serve another man. I’ll never let myself be captured again, never be imprisoned to another’s
will. I’ll die before I let it happen again. Because if I do, I’ll have let her die for nothing. Do you understand?”

She stared at him, standing so proud and tall. The scars of his captivity were etched upon his back, his years of imprisonment
illustrated by the tattoos on his face. He’d always have them with him, no matter where he went, no matter what he did. There
was no way he could ever forget his captivity or his vow to never submit to another’s will. He was a hard man, and his will
was iron.

He nodded. “Now you know.”

She swallowed, feeling a little sick but not wanting to appear weak before him. “Yes, now I know.”

He turned his back on her and left the room.

Beatrice looked about the room, dazed. His story had been worse even than she’d expected, because now she
did
know: Reynaud would never let himself love her.

W
HAT HAD POSSESSED
Beatrice to make him tell that story? Reynaud ran down the stairs to the front hall. What did she want of him? Had he not
been an attentive husband and a sensitive lover? What more did she need?

And why bring all this up today? His belly felt twisted in knots, and he absently rubbed it as he strode through the front
hall. He needed his mind sharp and clear, uncluttered by emotional upheaval. Tonight he’d make amends for his abrupt exit—bring
her those flowers that Jeremy had said she’d like. But right now he had an appointment with his solicitors to go over his
petition to the special committee, and that he couldn’t miss.

Reynaud was descending the front steps of his town house, his mind still occupied with thoughts of Beatrice, when he heard
his name called. He turned and saw a vision from his past.

Alistair Munroe walked toward him, bearing the scars of ritual Indian torture on his face.

Reynaud flinched.

“Horrible, aren’t they?” Munroe rasped in a raw voice.

Reynaud studied him. Munroe’s right cheek was marred by the scars of knife wounds and burning sticks. A black eye patch covered
the socket of one eye. Reynaud had seen the captured killed by Indians twice—one right after Spinner’s Falls and again in
his fourth year with Gaho’s band. Her husband had disappeared for a month one summer and then returned with an enemy warrior
he’d captured on a raid. The man had taken two days to die.

“Did you scream?” he asked.

Munroe shook his head. “No.”

“Then you were a worthy captive,” Reynaud said. “Had you not been rescued, you would’ve been tortured to death eventually.
Then the men of the tribe would have cut your heart from your body, and all would have eaten a small piece of it so that they
might take your courage into their own bodies and use it when next they fought.”

Munroe threw back his head and laughed, the sound harsh and rusty. “No one has ever talked about my scars so frankly to my
face.”

Reynaud gestured, unsmiling. “They’re badges of honor. I have the same on my back.”

“Do you now?” Munroe looked at him thoughtfully. “You must’ve been a stubborn bastard to survive seven years a captive.”

“You might say that.” Reynaud cocked his head. “Have you been to see Vale yet?”

“Indeed I have, and he says you might have a small chore for me.”

“Good man.” Reynaud grinned. “Actually, I have two favors to ask of you. Let me tell you what I need done. . . .”

L
ORD
H
ASSELTHORPE CLIMBED
into his carriage and pounded his stick against the roof to alert the driver. Then he sat back and withdrew a memorandum
book from his greatcoat pocket. His majority was thin, but he had no doubt they would easily vote down Wheaton’s ridiculous
veteran’s pension bill. The government could ill afford to pay drunks and riffraff to lie about all day just because they
once took the king’s shilling. Still, it never hurt to be careful. He licked his thumb and turned to the first page in the
little book and began to study his speech against the bill.

So intent was he on the points he meant to argue, in fact, that it was some time before he noticed that the carriage was driving
by Hyde Park.

Lord Hasselthorpe scowled and leaped to his feet, knocking against the carriage roof. “Stop the carriage! Stop the carriage,
I say! You’re going in the wrong damned direction.”

The carriage pulled to the side of the road and halted. Hasselthorpe prepared to give the idiot coachman a tongue-lashing.
But before he could reach the carriage door, it was jerked open and a familiar face filled the doorway.

“What the hell are you doing?” Hasselthorpe roared.

So Longsword lived with the princess and her father in the royal castle, and his days were filled with ease and joy. The food
was rich and abundant, his clothing warm and soft; he didn’t have to battle any imps or demons, and the princess was delightful
company. In fact, the more time Longsword spent riding with the princess, dining with her, and strolling the castle gardens,
the sweeter his pleasure became, until he longed to spend all his days and nights with her forever.

But he knew he could not. His year on earth was growing to a close, and the Goblin King would soon demand his return….

—from
Longsword

Westminster Hall’s stern Gothic architecture gave it a conservative air much admired by the majority of the older members
of parliament. A corner of Reynaud’s mouth curled up as he neared the imposing doors. He’d come here often as a young man,
accompanying his father when he sat in the House of Lords. It was strange to enter now, knowing that he came to defend a title
held by his father—a title that should’ve passed to him without any dispute at all. He squared his shoulders and thrust his
chin out as he entered the facade. It occurred to him they were the same movements he used to make right before battle.

This, too, was a battle, but one he must fight with his wits.

Reynaud strode through the great vaulted hall, passing under the watchful eyes of the angels that lined the eaves, and proceeded
to a dark back passage. This led down a short flight of stairs and to a series of dark-paneled doors. Outside one was a somberly
dressed servant.

The servant bowed to Reynaud. “They’re waiting within, my lord.”

Reynaud nodded. “Thank you.”

The dark little room he entered was sparsely furnished. Four rows of wooden benches sat facing a large wood table. Beside
the table was a single tall chair. The room was loud with the voices of men, for the benches were nearly full. There were
twenty members of this Select Committee for Privileges, appointed from the House of Lords to decide the matter of his title.
As Reynaud found a seat, the chairman of the committee, Lord Travers, got up from where he’d been sitting with Beatrice’s
uncle on the front bench. He saw Reynaud, nodded, and went to stand before the tall chair.

“My lords, shall we begin?”

The room gradually quieted, although total silence was not achieved, because several members continued to murmur, and one
elderly lord was cracking walnuts in the corner, apparently oblivious to the proceedings around him.

Lord Travers nodded, gave a brief, dry outline of the case before the committee, and then called on Reynaud.

Reynaud took a deep breath, his fingers moving to touch where his knife usually hung by his side before he remembered he’d
left it at home. He stood and strode to the front of the room and faced his peers. The faces that looked back at him were
mostly old. Would they understand? Did they still have pity?

He took a breath. “My lords, I stand before you and plead for the title my father, my grandfather, my great-grandfather, and
his father before him held. I ask you for what is only mine by birth. You have papers attesting to my identity. That, I think,
is not at issue.” He paused and looked at the men sitting in judgment of him. Not a one looked particularly sympathetic. “What
is at issue is what my opponent intends to claim: that I am mad.”

That caused several lords to frown and put their heads together. Reynaud felt his shoulder blades twitch. The tack he was
taking was a risk, but a calculated one.

He let the murmurs die and then lifted his chin. “I am not mad. What I am is an officer of His Majesty’s army, one who has
seen perhaps more than his fair share of combat and hardship. If I am mad, then every officer who ever saw battle, who ever
came home missing limb or eye, who ever dreamed in the night of blood and war cries, is mad as well. Shame me and you shame
every brave man who has fought for this country.”

The voices had grown louder at his assertion, but Reynaud raised his voice to be heard over the murmuring. “Grant me, then,
my lords, what is mine and mine alone. The title that belonged to my father. The title that in time will descend to my son.
The earldom of Blanchard.
My
earldom.”

There were frowns and voices raised in argument as he made his way back to his seat. As Reynaud sat down he wondered if he’d
just won back his title—or lost it forever.

A
LGERNON
D
OWNEY, THE
Duke of Lister, was on the way to the House of Lords, but he paused on the front steps of his town house to give his
secretary some additional instructions. “I’ve run out of patience. Tell my aunt that if she cannot keep figures, then she
should hire someone literate to do it for her. Until then, I do not intend to give her any further monies this quarter. A
few refusals of service from tradesmen may help her to be more frugal with her allowance.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” The secretary made a low bow.

Lister turned to descend his steps to the waiting carriage.

Or at least that was what he intended. Instead he stopped so suddenly that he nearly lost his footing. Waiting for him at
the bottom was a tiny, beautiful woman in a bright green frock.

Lister frowned. “Madeleine, what are you doing here?”

The woman thrust out her chest, imperiling the fine silk of her bodice. “What am I doing here?”

Behind him, Lister heard a dry cough. He turned to see his secretary goggling at his mistress.

“Go inside and make sure Her Grace doesn’t take a notion to come out the front door,” Lister ordered.

The secretary looked a bit disappointed, but he bowed and went inside.

Lister started down the steps. “You know better than to visit my family residence, Madeleine. If this is some attempt at blackmail—”

“Blackmail! Oh, I like that! I like that indeed,” Madeleine replied somewhat obscurely. “And what about
her
?”

Lister followed her pointing finger to find… “Demeter? I don’t understand.”

The blond lady thus addressed cocked a magnificent hip and folded her arms across her ample bosom. “And you think I do? I
received this letter”—she waved an elegant-looking missive—“saying you need me at once and please come here, of all places,
if I had any affection for you at all.”