The Traitor by Grace Burrowes Page B

back. Your wounds were not tended, and your womenfolk were left to think you dead.”
    His lordship stood. “My wounds were tended more effectively than they would have been in any English field hospital. I know it was part of his strategy, to alternate care and abuse, but it was not part of his strategy to work out a ransom for me. He didn’t have to do that.”
    This was…this was the confounded illogic of English honor, and yet Henri attempted to argue with it. He rose, lest Anderson try to stroll away from a discussion not yet concluded.
    “St. Clair extracted from you every useful detail of intelligence he could, and then extracted coin from your family for the privilege of burying you on English soil, despite the fact that neither France nor England wanted any part of official prisoner exchanges. You were abused in more ways than you’ll admit.”
    Though at the time, Henri had approved wholeheartedly of the ransom. Paris did not need to know everything that transpired hundreds of miles distant, after all, and the République had seen some share of the coin. Occasionally.
    “I am alive, sir,” Anderson said, tapping his hat more firmly on his head. “And while I will happily meet any man on the field of honor for just cause, my lady wife would rather I not keep fighting a war now concluded. If this makes me a traitor, then have an English officer of the Crown take me to task for it. I bid you good day, and my thanks for the gingerbread.”
    He sauntered on, swinging his walking stick, the picture of English manhood in full bloom. Henri fell in step beside him, sparing a moment’s thought for the knife in his boot.
    Buried between mon capitaine ’s shoulder blades, it would make a lovely addition to his so-fine and boring wardrobe.
    “You’ll talk to this Dirks again?”
    “I will talk to MacHugh, and then you can find another accomplice, monsieur. If England wants St. Clair dead that badly, then many should be willing to assist you.”
    “Good day, then, and my compliments to your lady, and to your small daughters.”
    Because he could not abide insubordination, Henri gave those last civilities just the slightest ironic emphasis. Let Anderson understand that his cooperation was not discretionary, but rather, as imperative as, and nearly identical with, his loyalty to the damned English Crown.

Six
    “You will need your cloak and bonnet.”
    Milly admired the perfect seam stretched across her embroidery hoop, though St. Clair’s tone suggested she was to pop to her feet, salute, and trot off for the front door at double time.
    “Since when does one need outdoor apparel to learn to write one’s name, my lord?”
    He remained standing over her—a male tactic she’d long since lost patience with—until Milly realized he was not trying to intimidate with his size and muscle, he was studying her sewing.
    “Your stitchery is very pretty, Miss Danforth.”
    Flattery was a male tactic with which she’d had little experience. “Thank you.”
    He drew his finger over the flowers she’d embroidered along one hem—purple irises, red tulips, an occasional spike of yellow gladiolus, and a froth of greenery. “You have sketched the pattern on the fabric, and this tells me you can copy what you see. Your colors are accurate for the subject, and I haven’t seen you wearing spectacles.”
    He continued to stroke a single finger over the linen, and Milly realized that, all unaware, the baron was admiring her new summer nightgown.
    Saints abide. She set the hoop back in her workbasket. “My vision is quite functional, though I will occasionally use spectacles when I’m fatigued, your lordship, and I am most eager to learn my signature.”
    He straightened, but not before Milly noticed that her froth of greenery was the exact same shade St. Clair’s eyes had been when he’d dealt with Alcorn.
    “Then prepare to walk with me. When one’s decisions can result in men losing their lives, one learns to gather