“Yes.” She looked up into his stern face. “Thank you for bringing me.”
He nodded. “He was a good man.”
“Yes, he was,” she murmured.
He handed her into the carriage and then climbed in after her, knocking against the ceiling to signal the coachman. She watched out the window as they pulled away from the cemetery, then looked at him. “You’re still set on a marriage by special license?”
“I’d like to be already married by the time I go before parliament,” he said. “If it bothers you, we can plan a celebratory ball in the new year.”
She nodded. After the passion of his seduction, the practicality of his plans for their marriage was slightly dampening. She remembered Lottie’s words about a gentleman filling a position with his choice of wife. Wasn’t that what she herself was doing? Reynaud needed her as his wife so that he could convince others he was sane. Nathan needed Lottie as his wife to further his career. The only difference was that Lottie had believed her husband loved her.
Beatrice had no such illusions.
She straightened a bit and cleared her throat. “You never told me how you eventually escaped the Indians. Did Sastaretsi give up his hatred of you?”
He flattened his mouth impatiently. “Do you really wish to hear this tale? It’s boring, I assure you.”
His stalling tactics only made her curiosity keener. “Please?”
“Very well.” He looked away and was silent a moment.
“Sastaretsi?” she prompted softly.
“He never did give up his hatred of me.” Reynaud was staring out the window, his long nose and strong chin in profile against the wine-red squabs behind him. “But that first winter was hard, and it was all we could do to simply find enough food to feed everyone. I was an able-bodied hunter, if not a very good one at first, so I think he laid aside his animosity for a little while. We were all weak from hunger anyway.”
“How dreadful.” She looked down at her lap, examining her fine kid gloves. She’d never wanted for food in her life, but she’d seen beggars on the street now and again. She tried to imagine Reynaud with that gaunt face, that glittering, desperate expression in his black eyes. She didn’t like the thought of him suffering so terribly.
“It wasn’t amusing, certainly,” he said. “I remember once finding a she-bear. They crawl into the biggest trees, into holes in the wood, to sleep the winter away. Gaho’s husband showed me how to look for the claw marks on tree trunks that meant a bear lay above. After we’d killed the bear, they skinned a part of it and ate the fat without waiting to light a fire and cook the meat.”
“Dear God.” Beatrice wrinkled her nose in disgust.
He looked at her. “I ate it as well. The flesh steamed in the cold winter air, and it tasted of blood, and I gulped it down anyway. It was life. We’d had no food for three days prior to that.”
She bit her lip and nodded. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he said quietly. “I survived.”
He folded his arms across his chest then and leaned his head against the squabs, his eyes closed as if he slept, though she doubted he did.
She bowed her head. He’d survived, and she was glad, truly, but at what cost? What he’d endured had changed him. It was as if he’d passed through a fiery furnace, burning away all the parts of him that had been soft or sentimental, leaving a fire-hardened inner core, impervious to pain or feeling, perhaps impervious to love as well.
She shivered at the thought. Surely he felt something for her?
They spent the rest of the carriage ride home in silence, and it was only when the carriage slowed before Blanchard House that she glanced out the window.
She leaned a little forward. “There’s another carriage blocking the way.”
“Is there?” Reynaud said absentmindedly, his eyes still closed.
“I wonder who it could be?” Beatrice mused. “Now a gentleman is getting out, and he’s handing down a very elegantly dressed lady. Oh, and there’s a small boy as well. Reynaud?”
She said the last because he’d suddenly sat up and twisted around to look out the window.
“Christ,” he breathed.
“Do you know them?”
“It’s Emeline,” he said. “It’s my sister.”
HE’D DREAMED OF this moment for nights on end during his captivity: the day when he’d finally see his family again. The day when he’d see Emeline.
Reynaud climbed slowly down from his carriage, turning to help Beatrice alight. Her face was excited, beaming with curiosity, wonder, and joy, as if she reflected all the many emotions he ought to be feeling right now. He hooked her hand through his elbow and approached the small group of people gathered on the top step of Blanchard House. The man was turned toward them with a face that looked impassive from this distance, but it was the woman Reynaud focused on. She’d only just now noticed their presence and was turning quickly. Her face went blank, and then an expression of rapturous joy spread over it.
“Reynaud!” she cried, and started down the steps. The man—it must be Hartley—caught her under the arm, slowing her, and for a moment Reynaud felt anger rise in his breast.
Until he saw why Hartley urged her to slow down.
“Oh, my,” Beatrice breathed.
Emeline was quite obviously enormously pregnant. Seven years ago, she’d been a young mother and a bride. Now she was married to a different man and was expecting her second child. He’d missed so much.
So much.
He and Beatrice reached the bottom of the steps just as Emeline and Hartley made the street. Emeline stopped suddenly, staring at him, then reached out a hand, touching his cheek in wonder.
“Reynaud,” she breathed. “Reynaud, is it you?”
He covered her fingers with his hand, blinking back the moisture in his eyes. “Yes, it’s me, Emmie.”
“Oh, Reynaud!” And suddenly she was in his arms, and he was awkwardly hugging her close around the bulk of her belly. She felt so sweet, his little sister, and he closed his eyes, simply holding her for a moment.
She pulled away at last and smiled, the same smile she’d had since the age of ten, and then frowned. “Oh, fustian! I’m going to cry. Samuel, I need to go inside.”