She bowed her head at that, for what could she reply? In her mind’s eye, Beatrice, too, saw herself sitting among a crowd of children. But when she imagined their father, it wasn’t Jeremy’s face she saw but Viscount Hope’s.
“WILL YOU TELL me what happened when you reached Sastaretsi’s camp?” Beatrice asked late the next morning.
She’d accompanied Lord Hope on a shopping expedition to Bond Street, hoping for an opportunity to ask about his past again. His aunt was planning a grand ball on the morrow to reintroduce him to society, and there were many last-minute items to purchase, including dancing slippers for him. But more importantly—at least to her—she wanted to hear the rest of his story.
“I’d’ve thought you’d forget the matter by now,” he replied.
It had been almost a week since he’d told her the story of the march to the Indian camp. During that time, she’d hardly seen him, he’d been so busy conferring with his aunt and doing other more mysterious things. He’d disappear before she rose for breakfast and sometimes didn’t reappear back at Blanchard House until after dinner or later. This meant that his and Uncle Reggie’s paths rarely crossed—which was good—but it also meant that she’d rather missed his sarcastic company over the last week.
“No,” she murmured softly. “I doubt I’ll ever forget what you’ve told me.”
“Then why make me continue?” he asked almost angrily. “Is it not enough that I have to bear those images in my mind? Why should you share them, too?”
“Because I want to,” she said simply. She couldn’t explain it better than that. She wanted to know what he’d gone through; the need was more than simple curiosity.
He looked at her quizzically. “I don’t understand you.”
“Good,” she said with satisfaction.
He grunted on what might’ve been a laugh. She turned to stare at him suspiciously, but his face became grave as he inhaled.
“When we came to the Indian camp, Sastaretsi blacked my face with charcoal to signify that I was to die. He tied a rope about my neck and led me into the village in triumph. He whooped as we came to let the others know that he’d brought home a captive.”
“How terrifying.” Beatrice shivered.
“Yes. It’s intended to be terrifying to the captive. I was made to run the gauntlet,” Lord Hope said as they came to a rather foul-looking puddle in the street. It was quite wide, and Beatrice was eyeing it uncertainly when he grasped her by the waist and simply lifted her over it.
“Oh,” she squeaked. He stood for a moment on the other side of the puddle, holding her in the air without any visible sign of strain. “My lord!”
He cocked his head, studying her face just slightly above his. “Yes?”
She felt her breath come short, very aware of his large hands at her waist and the gleam in his black eyes.
“You should put me down,” Beatrice hissed. “People are staring.”
And indeed they were. A group of ladies giggled nervously behind gloved hands, and a cart driver leered as he passed.
“Are they?” he asked absently.
“Lord Hope—”
But he was lowering her to the ground as if nothing had happened. Really! He hadn’t given her any warning at all. Did he want to be thought mad?
She peeked up at him and cleared her throat. “What’s the gauntlet?”
“A nasty way to welcome captives to an Indian camp.” He held out his arm for her, and she placed her gloved fingers primly on his sleeve. “All the inhabitants in the village form two lines, and the captive must run between them.”
“That doesn’t sound too bad.”
He looked down at her, the bird tattoos decorating his swarthy skin, the iron cross swinging from his ear. He looked like a pirate. “They hit and kick the captive as he runs.”
“Oh.” She swallowed. “And when he reaches the end of the line, what happens then?”
“It depends,” he said, guiding her around a clump of ladies eagerly peering in a shop window. “If the captive is a child or young boy, sometimes he is adopted into the Indian tribe.”
“And if he is older?” she whispered, dreading the answer.
“Then most often he is tortured and killed.”