His head jerked up, his face hardening. “Don’t be. She was an old Indian woman. She meant nothing to me.”
“But, Reynaud”—Beatrice sat up—“you said she saved you, treated you as a son. I know you were fond of her.”
“You don’t understand.” He picked up his knife and stared at it a moment—so long she thought he might never finish. Then he said softly, “The band that attacked Gaho and her family was the same one she’d tried to make peace with five years before. The one I was to marry into.”
Beatrice inhaled, not saying anything, simply watching him.
“If I was fond of her, I would’ve made that marriage. I would’ve ensured her village’s safety. I didn’t. I had only one goal the entire time I spent in her family—to come home. Nothing was more important.” He slid the knife into the sheath at his waist. “After I buried Gaho, I spent months tramping through the woods, evading Indians and Frenchmen alike until I reached British territory. And every step of the way, I reminded myself that I’d sacrificed Gaho and her family for this freedom.”
“Reynaud—”
“No.” He looked at her sharply. “You wanted to know, so let me finish. I had very little funds and no friends. When I reached a port, I signed on as a cook on a ship to pay my passage home.”
“You were ill and feverish when you got here,” she whispered.
He nodded. “I lived on dried meat and berries for months in the woods. By the time I made civilization, I was mostly skin and bones, and the fare on a ship isn’t particularly nourishing. I contracted some illness from the sailors and was feverish when we docked in London.”
“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?”