To Desire a Devil (Legend of the Four Soldiers #4)(44)

“Do you love her?” he asked.

“Yes,” Oates said simply. “With all my heart. But not, I believe, in the way you mean.”

Reynaud shifted in the chair, uncomfortable with his need to know exactly what the other man meant. “Explain.”

Oates smiled and Reynaud saw that he’d once been a handsome man before illness had carved lines of suffering into his face. “Beatrice is dearer than any blood sister could ever be to me.”

Reynaud narrowed his eyes. The man might say his relationship with Miss Corning was fraternal, but she wasn’t in fact related. How, then, could their friendship be as innocent as he claimed?

“So you wouldn’t have married her even if that hadn’t happened.” He jerked his chin at the other man’s missing legs.

Most would have taken offense, but Oates merely grinned. “No. Although Beatrice has brought up the idea of marriage to me more than once.”

That was an unpleasant jolt. Reynaud straightened. “What?”

And Oates’s grin widened, making him realize he’d risen to the bait.

“What game are you playing?” Reynaud growled.

“A game of life and death and love and hate,” Oates replied softly.

“You’re babbling.”

“No.” The grin abruptly vanished. “I’m completely serious. You’ll take care of her.”

“What?” Reynaud frowned. Sometimes invalids became confused from the pain and the drugs they took to mask it. Was Oates floating in some drug-induced haze?

“Promise you’ll take care of her,” the other man said, and although his voice was weak, his tone held the ghost of a good officer’s command. “Beatrice is a special woman, someone to be cherished for herself. She wears a mask of practicality, but underneath she’s a romantic and prone to heartbreak. Don’t break her heart. I won’t ask if you love her—I doubt you know yourself—but promise me you’ll take care of her. See to it she’s happy every day of her life. Lay down your own life for her if need be. Promise.”

And suddenly Reynaud understood. His emotions had blinded him to the reality that lay in front of him. He’d seen this look in other men’s eyes before, and he knew damned well what it meant.

So he said simply and sincerely, “I swear on everything I hold dear that I’ll take care of her, keep her safe, and do my damnedest to make her happy.”

Oates nodded. “I can ask for nothing more. Thank you.”

HOW DARE HE?

Beatrice opened the front door of Jeremy’s town house and went outside for a badly needed breath of fresh air. She’d already browbeaten Putley into keeping quiet about Lord Hope’s violent invasion of the house, but she was still dealing with her own reaction to his suspicions. And what terrible suspicions they were! Insulting both to Jeremy and herself. When had she ever given him cause to think her a wanton? And how he thought he could just barge in and dictate to her, she did not know.

Beatrice stamped her feet, both to keep warm and to emphasize her own anger.

There were three men loitering in the street below—two scrawny fellows in ragged brown coats and a taller man in black. The taller man turned to look at the sound of her stamping. His right eye rolled to the corner of the socket, revealing rather horribly the white membrane of the eyeball. She glanced quickly away from the poor man. She should go back inside, but she was still angry. She wanted to be composed when next she saw Lord Hope—the better to tell him exactly what she thought of him.

A brewer’s cart went by, rattling on the cobblestones, and one of the loitering men shouted something to the driver.

Behind her, the door opened so quickly she almost fell back in the house. Instead, strong hands caught her.

“I’ve been looking all over the house for you,” Lord Hope said. “What are you doing out here?”

She tried to pull away, but he held fast to her upper arms. “I wanted some air.”

He looked down at her disbelievingly, and she couldn’t help but notice how thickly his eyelashes rimmed his black eyes.

“In the cold?”

“I find it very refreshing,” she said, pulling at her arms again. “Might I have my person back?”

“No,” he muttered, turning to guide her down the steps, his hand still gripping one of her arms.

“What?” she demanded.

“I’m not letting you go,” he said. “Ever.”

“That’s not funny.”

“It’s not meant to be,” he said maddeningly as they came to the street. “Where’s the damned carriage?”

“Around the corner; there’s no room for it to stop here. Are you bamming me about not letting me go?”

“I don’t make jokes.”

“That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard,” she said, rather too loudly. “Everyone makes jokes, even people with no sense of humor like you.”

He yanked the arm he still held, making her bump into his chest. Hard.

“I assure you,” he snarled into her face, “that—”

But something odd happened then. She felt a shove from behind her, a sharp hit at her side. Lord Hope’s hands tightened painfully on her arms, and she saw that he was glaring murderously over her shoulder.