To Desire a Devil
“What did he do?” she asked.
“He came for me in the night. I was tied down and still weak from fever. I had no chance, but I fought anyway. I knew that to be in his clutches would be fatal.”
“But he caught you despite your resistance?” she asked softly.
He nodded. The words seemed stuck in his throat, and his chest hurt as if he could not draw breath. The feel of another man’s hands on his throat, the knowledge that he wasn’t strong enough to dislodge him. Suddenly he smelled bear grease, hot and sour and strong. Impossible. He was imagining it. No one smeared themselves with bear grease in England. But Sastaretsi had in that land so far away. The stink had been thick in his nostrils that night.
“Reynaud?” he heard Beatrice call. “Reynaud, you need not go on.”
“No,” he gasped. “No. I’ll tell it this once and never again.”
He lay for a moment, just breathing, trying to get the smell of bear grease out of his nose. Then he said, “He took me and bound me to a stake, and he beat me. Over and over. He broke sticks against my back, carved long lines into my flesh, and when I’d pass out, he’d wake me to start it all over again.”
She was silent, both of her hands wrapped around his now.
“He meant to kill me. To torture me until I begged and then burn me alive.”
“But you didn’t die,” Beatrice said. She sounded urgent. “You survived.”
“Yes, I survived,” he said. “I survived by refusing to utter a sound. No matter what he did to me, no matter how he beat me or made my blood flow, I remained silent. And then a miracle occurred.”
He looked at her, his sheltered wife. He should’ve never told her this story, never let her hear about the darkness he’d been through, the shame.
“What happened?”
“Gaho and her family returned,” he said simply, the words in no way conveying the wonder he’d felt at the event. “She told me later that she’d had a dream. In the dream, a snake was wrestling with a wolf, and the snake had its fangs sunk into the wolf’s neck. She said that the voice of her father told her that the snake must not win. When she woke, she cut short the festivities and came home.”
“What did she do?” Beatrice asked.
Reynaud’s mouth twisted. “She saved me from death. She freed me, gave me water, washed and bound my wounds, and on the morning of the next day, she gave me a knife and bid me to do what I must.”
“What did you have to do?”
“Kill Sastaretsi,” he said. “I was weak, suffering from the loss of my blood and the illness, but I had to kill him. He knew what I would do—even without Gaho’s permission, I could not let him live—and he could’ve run in the night, but instead he stayed to fight me.”
“And you won,” she said.
“Yes, I won,” he said, feeling no victory at all.
She sighed and settled against his shoulder. “I’m glad. I’m glad you killed Sastaretsi. I’m glad you survived.”
“Yes,” he said softly. “As am I.”
Perhaps it made everything that had come before worth it.
“YOU RISE EARLY for a man newly married,” Vale said cheerfully a week later. “Perhaps you got too much sleep last night.”
Samuel Hartley, walking on the other side of Vale, snorted. All three men were strolling a fashionable London street to discourage eavesdroppers, their pace swift, for the wind was quite chilly.
Reynaud scowled at them both. It was a beautiful morning, and he’d left his new wife sleeping in their warm bed so he might come consult with these two jesters.
And they didn’t even appreciate his sacrifice. “We can give you some help, if you need it,” Vale continued, as mindless as a jackdaw, “on the wonders of marital bliss. At least I can.”
He looked at Hartley in question.
“As can I,” the Colonial replied. His wide mouth was straight, but something about it made it seem like he was laughing.
“I’m glad to hear it considering that you’re married to my sister,” Reynaud replied with an edge to his voice.
Hartley’s expression didn’t change, but his body seemed to grow more tense. “You should have no worries that I’ll take care of Emeline.”
“Good to know.”
“Now, now,” Vale said in a sickeningly sweet voice reminiscent of a nursery nanny. “I already gave him a drubbing for courting Emmie.”
Reynaud raised his eyebrows. “You did?”
“He did not,” Hartley said even as Vale nodded happily. “I threw him down the stairs.”
Vale pursed his lips and looked skyward. “Not my recollection, but I can see how your memory of the event may’ve become hazy.”
“Now, look here,” Hartley began quietly, a thread of amusement in his voice.
“Gentlemen,” Reynaud said, “we need to come to the crux of the matter, for it is indeed only a week after my wedding, and my lovely wife will eventually expect me to wait attendance on her.”
“Very well.” Hartley nodded, serious now. “What have you discovered since I last saw you, Vale?”
“There are rumors both that the Spinner’s Falls traitor was a nobleman and that his mother was French,” Vale said promptly.
Hartley cocked his head. “And where did you get this information?”
“Munroe,” Reynaud said, Vale having informed him at their previous meeting. “The first bit of information he had from a colleague in France; the second—”
Vale looked embarrassed.
“I expect because of me,” Reynaud said. “My mother was French.”
“Of course.” Hartley nodded.
“No doubt he thought that if I was already dead, there was no point in casting doubt upon my name,” Reynaud said drily. “But since it happens that I’m not dead . . .”
“Now we need to think of who else among the survivors had a French mother,” Vale said grimly. “Because whoever it is must be the traitor.”
“But there isn’t anyone else,” Hartley said.
Reynaud grimaced. “If you’re suggesting it’s me—”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hartley snapped. “Just listen. There’s you, me, Vale here, Munroe, Wimbley, Barrows, Nate Growe, and Douglas—I’ve talked to them all.”
“Yes.” Vale said. “And all are from London and probably had ancestors running about in blue at the time of the Roman invasion.”
“Thornton, Horn, Allen, and Craddock are dead,” Hartley continued, “but we investigated them thoroughly. None of these men had French mothers. There simply isn’t anyone else who survived who could be the man.”
“Then perhaps it was someone killed,” Reynaud said softly. “Though that doesn’t make sense.”
“Who else had a French mother?” Vale asked.
“Clemmons had a French sister-in-law,” Hartley said thoughtfully.
“Did he?” Vale stared. “I had no idea.”
Hartley nodded. “He mentioned it once. A younger brother’s wife, but she is dead.”
“It doesn’t fit in any case,” Reynaud said impatiently. “Not unless Munroe’s source was inaccurate.”
Hartley shook his head.
“We need to talk to Munroe, see if he has any recollection,” Reynaud said.
“I sent a messenger to him some weeks ago,” Vale said. “But the man hasn’t responded.”
Reynaud grunted. Munroe was well known as a recluse, but they needed his memories, too. Perhaps he’d have to take Beatrice on a trip to Scotland.
But first there were more pressing matters to attend to.
Vale raised an eyebrow. “You have it, of course, but what do you have in mind?”
Reynaud glanced about them to make sure no one was paying special attention to their conversation, then said, “I have an idea . . .”
BEATRICE LAID OUT her bookbinding tools carefully. She was always excited to begin a new project. She liked the anticipation of taking either an old and falling-apart book and putting it in order or taking what was essentially a sheaf of papers and turning it into a lovely book. It was almost an art, really. And she liked her tools and materials to be just so. The different-sized bonefolders aligned perfectly, the needles in their little box, the spools of thread lined up along the upper edge of her worktable. Later she’d look through her supplies of pretty paper and calf’s hide, but for the moment she was interested only in cutting, folding, and sewing.
She hummed softly to herself as she worked, quite content, and thus it was with some surprise that she heard the clock in the hall and realized that it was almost time for dinner. Footsteps and male voices sounded in the hall, and she cocked her head, listening for her husband’s voice. She looked up when the door to her little sitting room opened.
“Ah, there you are,” Reynaud said as he walked in.
She smiled because it seemed she could not help but smile like a fool when she saw her husband. Every day she was married to him, she became more enthralled with him—and the knowledge made her uneasy. He’d still not said that he loved her, and he rarely showed her affection except in the privacy of their bedroom. Perhaps that was normal in a society marriage. Perhaps most gentlemen had trouble expressing affection.
God, she hoped so.
Beatrice looked down blindly at her worktable. “Did you enjoy your visit with Lord Vale?”
“Enjoyed may not be exactly the right word.” He came to stand beside her table. “What is this?”
“A book I’m binding for Lady Vale.” She looked up at him. “It’s for your sister. Apparently, your nanny read it to you both when you were children.”
“Indeed?” He bent over her shoulder, studying the pages she was sewing. “I’ll be damned. It’s the tale of Longsword.” A wondering smile lit his face. “That was a favorite of mine.”
“Perhaps I should make a book for us as well, then,” Beatrice said lightly.
“Why?”
“Well . . .” She looked down at her hands, carefully drawing the thread. “For our children, naturally. I’m sure you’d like to read them the book you enjoyed as a child.”
He shrugged. “If you wish.”
Beatrice wrinkled her nose, frowning fiercely to keep back silly tears. Childish of her to feel hurt at his dismissive tone. She drew a breath. “What did you talk about with Lord Vale?”
“My title,” he said. “I intend to get it back tomorrow, if you remember.”
“Of course.” She busied herself with her tools. He sounded so sure, but the rumors of his madness still swirled about the streets of London.
“And once I obtain it, this house will be mine alone.”
“I hope you’ll not mind Uncle Reggie and me staying here as well.” She tried to say the words lightly.
“Don’t be silly.” He frowned.