He gazed blindly down at his hands. “It took Coleman two days to die, and all the while, we watched and knew we would be next. Fear…” He cleared his throat. “Fear does ugly things to a man, makes him less human.”
“Alistair,” she whispered again, no longer wanting to hear this tale.
But he continued. “Another man—an officer—they crucified and set alight. He made high, terrible screams like an animal as he died. I’ve never heard the like before or since. When they started on me, it was almost a relief, if you can credit it. I knew I would die; my chore was simply to die with what bravery I could. I never cried out when they pressed burning brands to my face, nor when they cut me. But when they took a knife to my eye…”
His hand drifted to that side of his face, and his fingers delicately traced the scars. “I think I lost my mind a little. I can’t remember exactly. I don’t remember anything before I woke again in the Fort Edward infirmary. I was surprised to be alive.”
“I’m glad.”
He looked at her. “For what?”
She swiped at her cheeks. “That you survived. That God took away your memory.”
He smiled then, a horrible twisting of his lips. “But God had nothing to do with it.”
“What do you mean?”
“It made no sense.” He waved his hand in a broad sweep. “Don’t you see? None of it had any order or reason. Some of us survived and some did not. Some were scarred and some were not. And it mattered not whether a man was good or brave or weak or strong. It was pure chance.”
“But you survived,” she whispered.
“Did I?” His eye glittered. “Did I? I’m alive, but I’m not the man I was before. Did I truly survive?”
“Yes.” She stood and came to him, placing her palm on his scarred cheek. “You’re alive and I’m glad.”
He covered her hand with his own, and for a moment they stood thus. His gaze searched hers, intent and confused.
Then he turned his head away, and her hand dropped. She felt as if she’d missed something in that moment, but she didn’t know what. Bereft, she sat back down on the bed.
He resumed dressing. “As soon as I was well enough to travel, I sailed for England. You know the rest, I think.”
She nodded.
“Yes, well. I’ve lived since that time very much as you first saw me when you came to the castle. I’ve avoided the company of others for obvious reasons.” He touched the patch over his eye. “But a month ago, Viscount Vale and his wife, your friend, Lady Vale…”
He trailed away, frowning. “I say, how did you become acquainted with Lady Vale? Was that part of your story made up as well?”
“No, that was true enough.” Helen grimaced. “I suppose it does look odd, a mistress like me friends with a respectable woman like Lady Vale. I confess that I know her only slightly. We met several times in the park, but when I fled Lister, she helped me. We are friends, truly.”
Alistair seemed to accept that explanation. “Anyway, Vale was one of the men taken captive at Spinner’s Falls. When Vale came to visit, he had this odd story. Rumors that the 28th Regiment of Foot had in fact been betrayed at Spinner’s Falls by a British soldier.”
Helen straightened. “What?”
“Yes.” He shrugged and finally laid the shirt aside. “It makes sense. We were in the middle of the forest, and yet we were attacked by an overwhelming force of Frenchmen and Indians. Why else would they be there save that they knew we were to pass that way?”
She drew a sharp breath. Somehow the knowledge that such destruction of life had been planned—and by a fellow countryman—made it all the more horrible.
She looked at him with wonder. “I would think that you’d be wild with the desire for revenge.”
He smiled, fully and sadly. “Even if we catch this man, bring him to trial and hang him, it’ll not restore my eye or the lives of the men lost at Spinner’s Falls.”
“No, it won’t,” she agreed gently. “But you do want him caught, don’t you? Might it not bring you some peace?”
He looked away. “I have as much peace now as I’ll ever have, I think. But I suppose it would be appropriate for the traitor to be punished.”
“And the Frenchman, the friend you want to meet, is somehow connected to all this?”
He went to the fire and kindled a taper. With it he lit several candles in the room. “Etienne says there are rumors in the French government, but he does not want to commit them to paper—for his safety and for mine. He has accepted a position on an exploratory ship, though. It docks in London the day after tomorrow before leaving to sail around the Horn of Africa.”
He threw the remainder of the taper into the fire. “If I can talk to Etienne, then perhaps this mystery will be solved.”
“I see.” She watched him a moment more, then sighed. “Do you want to go down for supper?”
He blinked and looked at her. “I’d hoped to have something brought up.”
She began unlacing her stays, and his gaze immediately dropped to her bosom. “I had some food and wine delivered earlier.” She nodded to a covered basket on a chair. “It’s over there. If you think it’ll do, we can stay here and not bother with anyone else.”
He crossed to the basket and raised the cloth that covered it, peering inside. “A feast.”
Helen straightened the bodice of her chemise over her breasts, rose from the bed, and crossed to him. “Sit here, before the fire, and I’ll serve you.”
He frowned quickly. “There’s no need.”
“You didn’t object to my service when I was your housekeeper.” She rummaged in the basket and found a small plum. She offered it to him in the palm of her hand. “Why demure now?”
He took the plum, his fingers brushing against her palm and sending shivers down her arm. “Because you’re no longer my servant; you’re my…” He shook his head and bit into the plum.
“What?” She knelt at his feet. “What am I to you?”
He swallowed and said gruffly, “I don’t know.”
She nodded and turned her face to the basket so he wouldn’t see the tears in her eyes. That was the problem, wasn’t it? They didn’t quite know anymore what they were to each other.
Chapter Sixteen
At Truth Teller’s words, the evil sorcerer flew into a terrible rage. He raised his arms and laid a terrible curse on the soldier, turning him into a stone statue. The sorcerer placed Truth Teller in his yew knot garden, among all the other stone warriors. There he stood, day by day, month by month, year by year as birds came to rest on his shoulders and dead leaves settled at his feet. His still face stared, unblinking, at the garden, and what he thought about I do not know. His very thoughts had turned to stone. . . .
—from TRUTH TELLER
Helen wasn’t precisely respectable. This thought only occurred to Alistair as they stood on Lord Vale’s front step. He really shouldn’t have brought her along on an early afternoon call to a viscount and viscountess. But then again, she’d said that she was friends with Lady Vale, so perhaps the point was moot.
Fortunately, the butler chose that moment to open the door. After collecting their names, he bowed and showed them into a large sitting room. Very soon thereafter, Vale himself burst into the room.
“Munroe!” the viscount cried, bounding up and seizing Alistair’s hand. “Good God, man, I thought it’d take explosives to pry you out of that dratted drafty castle of yours.”
“It very nearly did,” Alistair muttered, squeezing Vale’s hand hard to keep from having his own appendage crushed. “Have you met Mrs. Helen Fitzwilliam?”
Vale was a tall man with hands and feet that seemed too large for his body, like an overeager puppy. His face was long, incised with deep vertical lines that in repose made his countenance look perpetually mournful. In contrast, his habitual expression was almost foolish, jolly and open, which lulled many a man into a false sense of superiority.
Right now, though, Vale’s expression had gone curiously flat at Alistair’s introduction of Helen. Alistair braced himself. He needed Vale’s help, but if the other man chose to insult Helen, he’d defend her and damn the consequences. The tensing of his muscles was instinctive.
But a quick smile flashed across Vale’s face, and he leaped forward to take Helen’s hand and bend over it. “A pleasure, Mrs. Fitzwilliam.”
The viscount straightened just as Lady Vale entered the room behind him. Despite the quiet of that lady’s step, Vale seemed to sense his wife’s presence at once.
“See who has come to visit us, my lady wife,” he exclaimed. “Munroe has abandoned his depressing moors and skipped away to bonny London. I think we should invite him to dinner.” He swung on Alistair. “You will come to dinner, won’t you, Munroe? And you as well, Mrs. Fitzwilliam. I shall expire of disappointment if you don’t.”
Alistair nodded curtly. “We’d be pleased to dine with you, Vale. But I’d hoped to discuss a matter of business this afternoon. It’s pressing.”
Vale cocked his head, looking like an intelligent hound. “Is it, indeed?”
“May I show you my garden, Mrs. Fitzwilliam?” Lady Vale murmured.
Alistair nodded his thanks at Lady Vale and watched the ladies leave the room.
When he turned, he found Vale’s too-perceptive eyes regarding him.
Vale smiled. “Mrs. Fitzwilliam is a lovely woman.”
Alistair bit back a blunt retort. “Actually, it’s on her behalf that I’d like to talk to you.”
“Indeed?” Vale ambled to a decanter of liquor and held it up. “Brandy? A bit early in the day, I know, but your expression suggests that we might need it.”
“Thank you.” Alistair accepted a crystal glass and sipped, feeling the liquid burn as it slid down his throat. “Lister has stolen Helen’s children.”
Vale paused with his glass raised halfway to his lips. “Helen?”
Alistair glared.
Vale shrugged and sipped his own brandy. “These are the Duke of Lister’s children as well that we’re discussing, I take it?”
“Correct.”
Vale raised his eyebrows.
Alistair shook his head impatiently. “The man has no interest in the children—it’s Helen he wants. He’s trying to force her back by holding the children.”
“And I assume you don’t wish her to return to Lister’s arms.”
“No.” Alistair gulped the rest of his glass and grimaced. “I do not.”
He waited for Vale to make some snide comment, but the other man merely looked thoughtful. “Interesting.”
“Is it?” He paced to a small case of books, staring at the titles sightlessly. “Lister won’t receive me. Helen he doesn’t mind seeing, but I don’t want her anywhere near that bastard. I need to find out where he’s keeping the children. I need to find out how to pry them away from him, and I need to be able to talk to the man.”
“And do what?” Vale asked quietly. “Do you intend to reason sweetly or call him out?”
“I doubt very much that he’ll respond to reason.” Alistair glared at the bookcase. “If it comes to that, I have no problem calling him out.”
“Not very subtle, old man,” the viscount murmured. “You usually have more finesse than this.”
Alistair shrugged, unable to explain his emotions even to himself.
“I can’t help but wonder what this woman means to you. Is she your mistress perchance?”
“I… no.” He turned and frowned at Vale. “Did not your wife tell you she had sent Mrs. Fitzwilliam to be my housekeeper?”
