Page 47 of The Traitor
“He cautioned me to mind my own business, essentially, because Sebastian’s business could become untidy at any moment.”
The sunlight streaming in the window showed lines of fatigue at the corners of Michael’s handsome mouth and around his eyes. If he didn’t soon give up the task of safeguarding his former commanding officer, he was at risk for growing prematurely old.
“What did His Grace mean, my lady? Sebastian’s business has been chronically untidy for years.”
“That’s the challenge in the game we play, isn’t it? What did he mean? Arthur and I are old friends, such as one can be friends with such a scamp, and in that context, I believe he was telling me to look after my nephew. Milly Danforth would look after Sebastian better than I ever could.”
“Milly Danforth got a dose of cold, hard truth last night. St. Clair explained to her exactly what his role was at the Château, used the wordstortureandinquisitorbecause calling himself a traitor didn’t drive the woman from the room.”
The cat squirmed, as if Michael might have been holding it too snugly, but rather than set the beast down, Michael shifted it against his shoulder, another posture suited to cuddling infants.
“Michael, those who listen at keyholes are seldom happier for it.”
“Those who don’t listen at keyholes often live only long enough to regret their virtue. You might want to advertise for a new companion.”
Lady Freddy rose from her escritoire and approached the man so intent on bringing old wars into her sitting room. He watched her with the wariness of one who did not entirely understand women.
“He’s such a handsome beast, this cat.” She ran her hand over thick, dark fur. “More placid than many of his kind. You should allow him to be a good influence, Michael. He permits himself regular doses of rest and affection, while you eschew both.”
“I do not want to see St. Clair’s brains spattered across some sheep meadow, but even more, I do not want to see him lose a woman he’s come to cherish. You—”
Lady Freddy left off petting the cat and waited, because in the way of men, Michael had finally come around to the point.
“You can take care of yourself,” he said, setting the cat on the floor. “Miss Danforth is an innocent. She’s a liability to Sebastian because of it, a liability to the household.”
“Love is not a liability, Michael, though I have to wonder if this great excess of protectiveness is directed toward Sebastian. He can take care of himself, too, can’t he?”
Michael’s gaze stayed on the cat as it sauntered out of the sitting room.
“Sebastian cannot protect himself from a woman who regards torture as part of the ordinary course of battle. She scolded him, not for having men beaten and starved and questioned for hours, but for beating himself with his memories.”
Sebastian had never starved anybody—except himself, very likely—and yet, this news was fiercely gratifying.
“Stay out of it, Michael. Sebastian will not thank you for interfering, and I shudder to think what Miss Danforth would do should she learn you were eavesdropping and carrying tales.”
“It’s my job to carry tales, and well you know it.”
She did know it, which had probably been another aspect of Arthur’s cryptic warning. “So you’ve done your duty, Michael. I will share this news with the professor, and we’ll double the figurative guard. And, Michael?”
He paused with his hand on the door latch.
“Miss Danforth is not your sister. She’s not anybody’s sister.”
He nodded once, an acknowledgment, not an agreement, and left without making a sound.
***
“I was told I’d find ye here cowerin’ among the lilies.”
The words were not particularly menacing, but the Scots burr with which they’d been delivered sent a cold, sinking weariness through Sebastian’s body.
Sebastian rose, glad he’d at least been alone in the Society’s reading room—but for the potted lilies making the place smell like a house in mourning.
“MacHugh.”
To say anything more—“You’re looking well,” “A pleasure to see you,” or even, “Good day to you”—would be to invite rage, and Sebastian had had enough rage to last a lifetime.
MacHugh glowered as only a big, mean Scot in a killing temper could glower. “I hear ye’ve been bragging.”
