Page 2 of Sir Durham’s Disarming Asset

Luc had not elaborated. Halsey and Inès and Rafe had not asked for elaboration. They had assumed her fate. If they thought on it too long, they would imagine what uncouth men given full largesse would do to a young lady who had once been privileged, rich—and now in disfavor of Vaillancourt. Rafe was quite certain now, as she recovered health and strength each day, that before her incarceration, she had been quite attractive. If she looked in a mirror today, he doubted she would see what she had been.

But she will recover her beauty—and all else. I will see to it.

Each day, he smiled more and more because he saw how she flowered. As he had cared for her from the beginning of her release, he had seen her at her worst, and in her pitiful distraction and near nakedness, he’d believed that she had the makings of a stunning creature. Her daily progress—if not her cantankerous nature—only spurred him on to cooking her finer meals, demanding she eat his cakes and muffins, two of them, three of them, all she wished. The changes he saw in her drove him onward each day, each time they moved farther south and on to the coast to find her a comfortable bed and a secluded house in which to recuperate. It also propelled him to find another skilled dressmaker, a better cobbler—and a new and eager greengrocer with access to sweet oranges and plump grapes.

Her attitude toward her everyday existence had changed little by little. She did not stare out at him from narrowed, inquiring eyes. No. He had shared who he was and how he had gotten involved in the group that freed her. She did not pull back or startle when he approached.

But even as Zephora recovered some of her physical strength, she had a few problems with her memory. In mid-sentence, she would stop, gazing out toward her past in that damn cell, and cringe. She would pause in a conversation, struggling to find the words.

“I am not an idiot,” she often seethed, angry at herself for her failure.

“Grant yourself patience,” he had advised.

She had scowled at him.

And silent, calm, he had smiled.

From her other problem recollecting the skill she told him she prized above all others, he had a more viable solution. He helped her add and subtract until she grew red-faced and insulted at her failures and his persistence.

When he laid out ten small stones from the beach, he had made her count them. Then do it again.

But when he took two away, she had to think…and put her hands to them to count.

He and she went on like that each day as they progressed from her counting to subtraction and addition, then multiplication. For some reason, she could not multiply beyond two times two. Furious at her failure, she would storm away. Later, she would roar back and apologize for her temper.

He accepted her, liked her as she was. And he told her so. She told him she applauded anyone who forgave so easily. It was an asset she wished to cultivate.

So, most often, she gazed at him with the warmth of one who had not only been spared horror and death, but one who appreciated his effort to care for her and amuse her in the process. Now, if she still froze when they happened upon a stranger—especially if it were a man—she paused to collect herself. She was learning the technique he had taught her to cope with the challenge.

Breathe. Quiet your mind. Learn the situation. Find the person beneath the façade.

She was quick to learn. Wise to her own wounds, physical and more. Desirous of growing beyond her trauma. Bold, he suspected she had always been. Proud, too.

No wonder Vaillancourt had wanted her for her impertinence to rob him. No wonder he had imprisoned her. The man was filth. The deputy chief of French police and Fouché’s next in command, René Vaillancourt was the scourge of women everywhere. He had threatened many whom Rafe had come to know and value.

One day, Rafe prayed, he would have the man at his mercy.

But for today, Rafe had his reward here in Zephora’s company. She trod on the sands barefoot and flounced into the wooden chair beside him. She wore a simple, unbleached French peasant’s muslin gown that flowed over her body like water. Her hair had grown after his shearing and was now a mop of short curls of red so fierce it made him blink. She raised a hand to her brow and smiled into the pale blue sky with that wide, luscious mouth of hers.

She was recovering. Every day, she flourished in the sunshine that shone upon her in the country that had done her such wrong.

*

“You are quiet today.” She could not speak above a murmur because her throat was still sore. That failure irritated her sense of independence. But she would get back her voice. That and all her faculties. And soon.

Rafe riveted her with those forest-green eyes of his. His smile always stood in his gaze more than on his lips. She liked his emotions there, where only those who had studied him could see.

Like me.

“I think how mild the weather is,” he said.

What a diplomat! She had seen him yearning to be gone. He wanted to cross the Channel. Of course he did. I do too. “I hear that the sunniest days in England come in June.”

His curiosity lit in his verdant green orbs. “You were there, were you, during summer?”

She nodded. “I barely remember London. I was there only a few days with my father. I have a vivid memory, however, of the horrible voyage over. Plus, I am not a good sailor. You will learn that, soon enough.”

“We will deal with that.” He was always so positive. The world bowed to him.