To Desire a Devil (Legend of the Four Soldiers #4)(11)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

Vale inhaled, as if bracing himself. “Then, after Coleman’s death on the second day, the Indians took us to where they were burning a man at the stake. They told us it was you. He wore your coat, had black hair. I thought he was you. We all thought he was you.” Vale looked up, meeting Reynaud’s gaze with haunted turquoise eyes. “His face was already gone. Blackened and burned by the flames.”

Reynaud looked away. The reasonable part of his mind knew that Vale and the others had had no choice. They’d believed him dead because of overwhelming evidence. Any sane man would believe the same when faced with what they’d seen and been told.

And yet…

And yet the beast at his core refused the explanation. He’d been abandoned, left by those he’d risked life and limb for. Left by those he’d called his friends.

“It was almost another fortnight before Sam Hartley brought back a rescue party to ransom us,” Vale said quietly. “Were you in the Indian camp that entire time?”

Reynaud shook his head, watching his left hand flatten against the counterpane, noting absently the contrast of his brown skin against the white fabric. His hand was thin, the tendons standing out clearly on the back. “How is my sister, Emeline?”

He heard Vale sigh as if frustrated. “Emeline. Emeline is just fine. She’s remarried now, you know. To Samuel Hartley.”

Reynaud’s head jerked up, his eyes narrowing. “Corporal Hartley? The ranger?”

Vale smirked. “The same, although he’s no longer a lowly corporal. He’s made his fortune importing and exporting goods from the Colonies.”

“Miss Corning told me that she married a colonial, but I hadn’t realized it was Hartley.” Even if Hartley was wealthy now, Emeline had married beneath her station. She was the daughter of an earl. What had possessed her?

“He came to London a year ago for business and for other matters and quite stole your sister’s heart, I think.”

Reynaud contemplated that information, his mind spinning in confusion and anger. Had Emeline changed so much in seven years? Or were his memories tainted? Warped by time and all that had been done to him?

“What happened, Reynaud?” Vale asked softly. “How did you escape death at the Indian camp?”

Reynaud’s head jerked up. He glared at his former friend. “Do you really care?”

“Yes.” Vale looked bewildered. “Yes, of course.”

Vale stared at him as if waiting for the story, but Reynaud was damned if he’d rip open his soul for him.

Finally Vale looked away. “Ah. Well, I’m glad—very glad—that you’re back safe and sound.”

Reynaud nodded. “Is that it?”

“What?”

“Is that it?” Reynaud enunciated. He was tired and needed sleep, dammit, though he wouldn’t let the other man know it. “Have you finished whatever you came for?”

Vale’s head snapped back as if he’d been clipped in the chin. Then he widened his stance, squared his shoulders, and leveled his head. A wide, unamused smile spread across his lips. “Not quite.”

Reynaud raised his eyebrows.

“I also wanted to talk to you about the traitor,” Vale said silkily.

Reynaud shook his head. “Traitor…?”

“The man who betrayed us to the Indians at Spinner’s Falls,” Vale said as a roaring began in Reynaud’s ears that almost drowned his last words. “A traitor with a French mother.”

BEATRICE HEARD THE crash as she mounted the stairs with another tray of tea and biscuits. She paused on the grand staircase, gazing blindly upward at the floor above. Had it been an accident? A China figurine or a clock falling off the mantel? The thought was hopeful, but she sped her steps, rounding into the upper hallway as the second crash hit. Oh, dear. It sounded rather as if Lord Hope and Lord Vale might be murdering each other.

Down the hall, the door to Lord Hope’s room burst open and Viscount Vale stomped out, angry but blessedly still intact.

“Don’t think this is over, Reynaud,” he called. “Damn you, I’ll be back.”

He jammed his tricorne on his head and turned and saw Beatrice. A sheepish look momentarily crossed his face.

Then he nodded curtly. “Your pardon, ma’am. You might not want to go in there at the moment. He’s not fit for civilized company.”

She glanced at the door to the scarlet room and then back to Lord Vale. As he neared, she saw with horror that a red mark marred his chin.

As if someone had struck him.

“What happened?” she asked.

He shook his head. “He’s not the man I once knew. His emotions are… extreme. Savage. Please, be careful.”

Lord Vale bowed gracefully and then strode past her and down the stairs.

Beatrice watched him disappear before glancing at the tray still in her hands. The tea had spilled a bit, staining the linen cloth covering the bottom of the tray. She could go back to the kitchens and have one of the maids lay a new tray—and perhaps have the girl deliver it as well. Except that would be cowardly. It wasn’t her duty to send servant girls into places she herself was afraid to venture.

She looked down the hall. The door to Lord Hope’s room still stood open. He was in there all alone.

She squared her shoulders and marched to the open door. “I’ve brought some more tea and biscuits,” she announced briskly as she sailed into the room. “I thought you might actually drink it this time.”

Hope was lying in the bed, turned toward the wall, and at first she thought he might be asleep, silly as that notion was after the commotion of before.

He didn’t turn. “Get out.”

“You seem to be under a misapprehension,” she said conversationally.

She started to set the tray on the little table beside the bed, but there were shards scattered in an arc away from the table, comprised of what had once been an ugly china clock and a matching pair of ceramic pugs. Added as it was to the previous tea things she’d brought up before Lord Vale’s visit, it was beginning to be quite a pile.

She turned to a table near the window—well out of reach of the bed.

“What are you babbling about?” Hope muttered.

“Hmm?” The table was already occupied by a vase and a brass candelabra, and Beatrice had to maneuver the tea tray carefully to avoid yet another spill.

“The misapprehension you said I was under,” Hope growled in a testy voice.

“Oh.” The tray settled, Beatrice looked over at him and smiled, even though he still had his back to her. “You seem to think I’m one of the servants.”