“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.”
HE’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.
Finally, Emeline declared herself weary, and Hartley leaped to help her up from her seat.
As the ladies made their farewells, Hartley turned to Reynaud and said quietly, “I’m glad you made it home.”
Reynaud nodded. He was home now, wasn’t he? “I hear you ran through the woods to bring back the rescue party for those who were captured.”
Hartley shrugged. “It was all I could do. Had I known they’d taken you alive, I would’ve searched until I’d found you.”
It was an easy vow to make, seven years after the fact, but Hartley’s face was grave, his eyes serious and intent, and Reynaud knew the other man meant it.
“You didn’t know,” he said, and held out his hand.
Hartley grasped his hand and shook it firmly. “Welcome home.”
And Reynaud could only nod again and look away, lest he lose his composure entirely.
Reynaud escorted Emeline and her family to the front door, then returned to the sitting room to find Beatrice pouring herself another cup of tea. He paced to the mantel, paused to glance at a small shepherdess—had it been his mother’s?—then went to the windows. All the while, he felt Beatrice’s gaze on him.
She set her cup down on the table beside her and eyed him. “Are you feeling well?”
He scowled out the window. “Why do you think something is wrong?”
She raised her eyebrows. “Forgive me, but you seem restless.”
He inhaled, watching a carriage rumble by below. “I don’t know. I have Emeline back, my family back, but something’s still missing.”
“Perhaps you need time to adjust,” she said quietly. “You’ve been seven years away, lived a very different lifestyle. Perhaps you simply need to settle.”
“What I need is my title,” he growled, turning to her.
She looked at him thoughtfully. “And when you have the title and all that goes with it, you’ll be content?”
“Are you suggesting otherwise?”
She glanced down at her teacup. “I’m suggesting that you might need more than a title and money to be happy.”
