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.”
She inhaled sharply. He said it so matter-of-factly.
“Were you . . .” She swallowed. How could she ask? But she had to know. The experience no matter how terrible was part of who he was. “Were you—”
“I wasn’t tortured.” His lips tightened as he looked straight ahead. “Not then anyway.”
Sudden tears rushed to her eyes. No, part of her wailed inside. Not him. Not this man. She’d known it had to have happened, but to hear it from his lips was devastating. For them to have hurt—shamed—this man ripped apart a portion of her soul. She felt suddenly older. Weary with the knowledge.
“What happened instead?” she asked quietly.
“Gaho saved me,” he said.
“Who is Gaho? And how did he save you?”
“She.”
She stopped and looked up at him, ignoring the mutters of the other pedestrians who were forced to go around them. “A lady Indian saved you?”
He smiled down into her face, making the birds crinkle as if they’d taken flight. “Yes. A powerful lady Indian saved me. She owned more furs, more pots, and more slaves than any other in that village. You might even call her a princess.”
“Humph.” She faced forward and began to walk, but she was unable to keep the question from leaving her lips. “Was she pretty?”
“Very.” She felt the whisper of his breath against her ear as he leaned down to tease her. “For a woman in her sixth decade.”
“Oh.” She tilted her nose in the air, feeling irrationally relieved. “Well, how did Gaho save you?”
“Sastaretsi had a rather bad reputation it seems. A year before, he’d killed one of Gaho’s favorite slaves in an argument. Gaho was a wise woman. She knew that Sastaretsi had very little to his name, so she’d bided her time until he acquired something that she might demand in repayment for the loss of her slave—me.”
“And what did she do with you?”
“What do you think, Miss Corning?” His wide, sensuous mouth twisted, curving down sardonically. “I was the son of an earl, a captain in His Majesty’s army, and I became the slave of an old Indian woman. Is that what you wanted to hear? That I was reduced to the lowest of the low in that Indian camp?”
He’d stopped in the street, but no one muttered as the crowd gave them a wide berth. Lord Hope might be attired like an aristocrat, but his expression was savage at the moment.
Beatrice had a cowardly urge to flee, but she stood her ground, tilting her chin up at him, holding his wild black eyes as she said, “No. No, I never wanted to hear that you were humiliated.”
He leaned over her, large and intimidating. “Then why persist in asking?”
“Because I need to know,” she said low and rapidly. “I need to know everything that happened to you, everything you experienced in that place. I need to know why you are the man you’ve become.”
“Why?” His black eyes widened with confusion. “Why?”
And all she could whisper was, “I just do.”
Because she couldn’t admit, even to herself, why.
REYNAUD HAD LED men into battle, had faced an Indian gauntlet without flinching, had endured seven years as the slave of his enemy and survived. All this he had done without a breath of fear. Therefore, it was simply impossible that he’d feel missish nerves at the thought of a ball.
Yet, impossible as it seemed, here he was pacing the hallway as he waited for Miss Corning to descend the stairs.
Reynaud halted and took a deep breath. He was the son of an earl. He’d attended innumerable balls before his capture in the Colonies. This creeping feeling he had—that he no longer belonged in London society, that he’d be denounced and repudiated—was ridiculous. He shrugged his shoulders in his new coat, twisting his head about to loosen the muscles of his neck. His new wig was impeccable, he knew—he’d hired a competent valet with the monies lent by his aunt—but it still felt foreign on his head. When he’d lived with the Indians, the only thing he’d covered his head with was a blanket, and then only when the winters were especially cold. He’d worn a long tail of braided hair, and his clothes had been a shirt, breechcloth, leggings, and moccasins—all soft materials, well worn and comfortable. Now he had a scratchy wig on his newly shorn head, a neck cloth half strangling him, and his new dancing slippers felt tight. Why so-called civilized men should choose to wear—