To Desire a Devil (Legend of the Four Soldiers #4)(77)

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.

Lord Hasselthorpe scowled and leaped to his feet, knocking against the carriage roof. “Stop the carriage! Stop the carriage, I say! You’re going in the wrong damned direction.”

The carriage pulled to the side of the road and halted. Hasselthorpe prepared to give the idiot coachman a tongue-lashing. But before he could reach the carriage door, it was jerked open and a familiar face filled the doorway.

“What the hell are you doing?” Hasselthorpe roared.

Chapter Sixteen

So Longsword lived with the princess and her father in the royal castle, and his days were filled with ease and joy. The food was rich and abundant, his clothing warm and soft; he didn’t have to battle any imps or demons, and the princess was delightful company. In fact, the more time Longsword spent riding with the princess, dining with her, and strolling the castle gardens, the sweeter his pleasure became, until he longed to spend all his days and nights with her forever.

But he knew he could not. His year on earth was growing to a close, and the Goblin King would soon demand his return….

—from Longsword

Westminster Hall’s stern Gothic architecture gave it a conservative air much admired by the majority of the older members of parliament. A corner of Reynaud’s mouth curled up as he neared the imposing doors. He’d come here often as a young man, accompanying his father when he sat in the House of Lords. It was strange to enter now, knowing that he came to defend a title held by his father—a title that should’ve passed to him without any dispute at all. He squared his shoulders and thrust his chin out as he entered the facade. It occurred to him they were the same movements he used to make right before battle.

This, too, was a battle, but one he must fight with his wits.

Reynaud strode through the great vaulted hall, passing under the watchful eyes of the angels that lined the eaves, and proceeded to a dark back passage. This led down a short flight of stairs and to a series of dark-paneled doors. Outside one was a somberly dressed servant.