“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.
WHAT 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. . . .”
LORD HASSELTHORPE 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.
o;Many Indian captives never go home again,” he said quietly. “They die in captivity not because their masters are so strong but because the prisoners no longer try to escape.”
“I don’t understand,” Beatrice said.
He nodded. “It doesn’t make much sense unless you’ve experienced it firsthand. I told you before that the Indians in that part of the New World adopt their prisoners into their family to take the place of family members who have died.”
“But you said they weren’t truly regarded as family. That their role was symbolic.”
“Mmm.” He finished sharpening his razor and laid it aside. “That’s more or less correct. The prisoner takes the place of a working member of the family—say a hunter—so those skills can be fulfilled.”