To Desire a Devil (Legend of the Four Soldiers #4)(59)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

“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.”

If he hadn’t survived, she wouldn’t be in his arms right now. That at least was good. Reynaud closed his eyes and felt the warm softness of his wife, the scent of woman and flowers surrounding him. He listened as her breathing evened and deepened as she fell asleep, and he gave thanks that he could experience this moment, this woman.

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—”

“He got it from Hasselthorpe,” Vale said, “although he didn’t deign to share the information with me until a month or so ago.”

Hartley looked at him curiously. “Why ever not?”

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.”