When she looked at herself in the mirror, she saw a woman blatantly well past the blush of youth in a plain gown, with plain hair and no ornament. She turned toward her jewel box, but then stopped herself. To decorate herself would put a wicked twist on this errand.
Grabbing her candlestick, she went out to make sure that her demon was not bent on something hellish.
The house was still. Surely everyone except herself was sensibly asleep. She knew she couldn’t sleep until she had made a thorough check, however.
The ground floor was peaceful. She went back upstairs and checked the drawing room. Nothing.
She paused in the corridor, accepting what she’d always known. Whatever Vandeimen was up to, he was in the privacy of his bedroom, and she could not invade there.
Yet she could not let this rest.
She allowed herself to creep down to his door and listen.
Silence.
There, see. He was asleep.
Then she heard something. A movement, no more, but it suggested that he wasn’t asleep.
He could be ready for bed.
Even naked.
She stood there, watching candlelight play red and black on the gleaming mahogany of the door panels, hearing only silence. Then, with a sigh and a wince, she gave a tiny tap on the door.
A voice. She couldn’t tell what he’d said, but she turned the knob and peeped in.
He was sprawled on the floor in breeches and open-necked shirt, head and shoulders supported by the chaise near the empty fireplace. The room had been in darkness, and he raised a hand to shield his eyes for a moment.
“Devil take it, it’s the angel again,” he muttered, lowering his hand and staring at her. An empty glass was almost falling out of his other hand, and a half-empty brandy decanter sat on the floor nearby.
She almost berated him, but stopped herself. That would do no good. She closed the door behind her, thinking, thinking.
It had all been illusion these past weeks. He was still the half-drunk man who’d been about to kill himself, and she still had to save him.
Chapter Seven
“What’s the matter?” he said in a voice turned lazy by drink. “No one’s going to know except Noons, so I’m not breaking the rules.”
A chair sat opposite the chaise on the other side of the fireplace. She went cautiously toward it, but then at the last moment she turned to the table of decanters. She put her candlestick there, took a glass and the decanter of claret, and sat on the floor in front of the chair, facing him.
She filled the glass, then placed her decanter on the floor in mirror image of his and took a drink. “There are certainly times when getting drunk seems like an excellent idea.”
Guarded eyes rested on her as he sipped. “You mean there are times when it doesn’t?”
The bleakness hit her, but she tried not to show it. She didn’t know what she was doing here, but she knew she mustn’t fall into emotion. “Did you get drunk before battle?”
“Not on purpose.” He shifted slightly, relaxing. He was, at least, willing to talk. “Some did. They tended to die. Perhaps happier than the ones who died sober. Or even the ones who lived... I was caught in the bottle once or twice....”
He eyed his almost empty glass and the decanter, and then went about filling it with notable care.
Maria sipped her wine. This was the first time he’d mentioned the darker side of war. Was that good, or bad? Was it war memories that chained him in the dungeons, or the loss of his family, or both? She couldn’t wipe one away, or bring the other back. She had to try to give him reason to live.
“Why did you join the army?” she asked, as if making idle conversation. “You were an only son.”
“Still am. Last of the line as well. All the hopes and expectations of the Vandeimens rest upon these paltry shoulders.” He toasted her and drank. “You have a lot of hair.”
Instinctively, she touched the tight knot of plait, but she stuck to her purpose. “So, why did you join the army?”
