Once Dishonored (Rogues Redeemed #5) - Mary Jo Putney Page 0,3

fingertips over the foot-and-a-half length of one.

“A Highland dirk,” she said. “Very good for close fighting.”

He smiled a little and turned back toward her. “Does Thorsay House expect to be invaded by the English?”

“If they come, we’re prepared.” The drinks cabinet was locked, but Kendra had paid to have it well stocked so she had one of the keys. It was a matter of moments to pour two glasses of good French brandy.

She handed him a glass and settled in the wing chair to the left of the fire. “I’m interested in learning about your errors in dealing with a shattered life. When we met, you were a young midshipman eager to test your mettle against the French and eventually become an admiral. How did you become tarnished?”

He took the other chair, his long, lean body shadowy in the flickering light. Under his well-tailored clothing he looked a little too thin, but whipcord strong. “I was much like an enthusiastic puppy in those days. After I discovered the realities of the Royal Navy, I lost my desire to become an admiral. But I generally liked the life and fighting the French mattered, so I stayed with it. Then my ship was sunk and I was taken captive along with the handful of other survivors. That led to my dishonor.”

“Cowardice under fire?” she asked. “I can understand how anyone might succumb to terror in a lethal situation.”

He shrugged. “By then I was a seasoned veteran of sea battles and wounds and had become fatalistic. My unforgivable sin was something else. Are you familiar with how prisoners of war are treated and what a parole is?”

She thought a moment. “A paroled prisoner is given freedom of movement around the town where he is imprisoned in return for giving his word of honor as an officer and a gentleman not to escape. Besides living in more comfortable conditions outside the fortress, he may be exchanged for an enemy prisoner of the same rank. A lieutenant for a lieutenant, a captain for a captain.” She bit her lip as she guessed what was coming.

“Exactly. A man who breaks his parole and escapes has betrayed his honor. His reputation is tarnished past redemption. Honorable men give him the cut direct. They may spit in his face. They blackball him from their clubs and certainly do not play cards with him. I escaped and having broken my word, I stand thus dishonored.” Foxton swirled his brandy in the glass “Just as well that I dislike playing cards.”

Wanting to understand, she asked, “Did you crave freedom more than honor? Or was the situation more complicated than that?”

She hadn’t realized that he was tense until she saw his face ease. “It was indeed complicated.” He took a small sip of brandy. “Like most captured officers, I was first sent to the prisoners’ depot at Verdun. Not particularly enjoyable, but bearable. Then I was transferred to a smaller depot at Bitche, which has the deserved reputation of being the most hellacious of French military prisons. There I was unfortunate enough to attract the attention of the commander, Colonel Roux, a man known for his cruelty.”

When he fell silent again, she asked, “What sort of attention? Were you insolent? Disobedient?”

“No more than other young captives. But he singled me out in ever more difficult ways.” Foxton rolled his glass of brandy restlessly between his hands. “He wanted me to cower from him, but I’m not good at cowering. Perhaps I would have fared better if I’d learned how to do that.”

“As someone who is bad at cowering myself, I can attest that changing one’s nature is difficult,” she said. “I tend to throw things instead of cowering.”

“That does not surprise me,” he said with a brief smile. His voice became darker. “Roux first granted me parole, then he revoked it and had me thrown into the vilest dungeon in Bitche. He did this again and again over the following months. It was a cat-and-mouse game with him, and the cat held all the power.”

She winced, sensing that his experiences had been far more painful than his terse words described. “Did he treat other prisoners that way?”

Foxton finished his brandy with one long swallow, then rose and began pacing the room, his unseeing gaze sliding over the weapon displays. “He was abusive in different ways to most prisoners, but he had a special hatred for me.”

“Do you know why?”

Foxton paused in front of an array of axes set in a circle,