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“The regiment was marching back from Quebec,” he began. “After taking the fort from the Frenchies. Quebec was well fortified, and there’d been a long siege all that summer, but we’d prevailed in the end. Then it was autumn, and it was thought best by those in command to retire before the weather became inclement in winter. We began marching south, toward Fort Edward. None but the officers knew our route. The Indians lurked in the woods all around us. Our commander, Colonel Darby, wished to make the fort without alerting the savages to our presence.”
“But that didn’t happen,” Rebecca said softly.
“No.” He sighed. “No, it didn’t. The regiment was attacked in the second week. We were marching only two abreast, and the line was strung out over almost half a mile when we were ambushed.” He stopped talking.
Rebecca waited, but he didn’t resume. They’d come to the far end of the garden by the back gate that led into the mews. She stopped and looked at Samuel’s friend. What was his name? Why was she so terrible at remembering names?
“What happened then?”
He tipped his head up to squint at the sky, then darted a look at her from the corner of his eye. “They attacked from both sides, and most of the men were killed. You know that the savages liked to cut off the scalps of their victims with their hatchets, as a kind of war trophy. You can imagine my dismay”—he patted his hair ruefully—“I actually heard one fellow shout to another that he wanted my scalp, it was so pretty.”
Rebecca looked at the tips of her shoes. She wasn’t sure if she was happy now to have finally heard something of what her brother had endured. Perhaps it would’ve been better to remain in ignorance.
“’Course,” Samuel’s friend was still speaking, “MacDonald wasn’t so fortunate.”
Rebecca blinked and glanced up. “What?”
He smiled a friendly smile and patted his hair again. “MacDonald. Another soldier, a friend of mine. His hair was as gingery as mine. The Indians took his scalp clean off, poor sod.”
“YOU NEVER TOLD her how St. Aubyn died, did you?” Sam asked that afternoon. They rode in Vale’s carriage, heading into the east end of London. Thornton hadn’t been at his place of business, and so now they had decided to try Ned Allen, the surviving sergeant. Sam only hoped he was sober.
Vale turned from the window. “Emmie?”
Sam nodded.
“No. Of course I didn’t tell her that her beloved brother was crucified and then burned alive.” Vale flashed a grim smile. “Would you?”
“No.” Sam held the other man’s gaze, feeling a reluctant gratitude that Vale had stood firm against what had probably been a determined assault by Lady Emeline for information. He’d seen how the lady worked. Once she set her mind to it, only a very strong man would be able to hold out against her. Vale obviously was such a man. Damn him.
The viscount grunted and nodded. “Then we don’t have a problem.”
“We might.”
Vale raised his eyebrows.
The carriage lurched around the corner, and Sam grabbed the leather strap hanging by his head. “She wants to know what happened. How Reynaud died.”
“Christ.” Vale closed his eyes as if in pain.
Sam looked away. He realized now that a craven part of him had been hoping the other man didn’t care about Lady Emeline. That their engagement was a purely practical matter. Obviously that wasn’t so.
“You mustn’t tell her,” Vale was saying. “There’s no need for her to live with that image in her mind.”
“I know that,” Sam growled.
“Then we’re in accord.”
Sam nodded once.
Vale looked at him and started to say something, but the carriage lurched to a stop. He glanced out the window instead. “What a lovely part of London you’ve brought me to.”
l still watched her. “Yes. I’d like some tea.” But that wasn’t what his deep voice said.
She shuddered, actually felt the tremor run through her, and knew she was embarrassingly hot. The teapot rattled against the cup as she poured. Abominable man! Did he want to humiliate her?
Meanwhile, Jasper had his dish of tea balanced precariously on one knee. He seemed to have forgotten it after a couple of sips, and now the cup sat, just waiting for a sudden movement to crash to the floor.
“Sam said something earlier about a Dick Thornton, Emmie,” he said. “I don’t recall a Thornton. ’Course with over four hundred men in the regiment originally, one didn’t know them all by name. Most by sight, but not by name.”
