To Taste Temptation by Elizabeth Hoyt Page B

aristocrats sauntered by, dressed in the height of fashion. Lace spilled from their wrists, their coats were made of velvet, and their wigs were extravagantly curled. They probably hadn’t yet attained their twentieth year, and they walked with all the arrogance of money and privilege, confident in their place in society, confident that the woes of the lesser classes would never touch them. Reynaud had walked like that once.
    She looked away, remembering black, laughing eyes. “He wrote about you.”
    He glanced at her, his brows raised.
    “Reynaud,” she clarified, although she could hardly be speaking of anyone else. “In his letters to me, he wrote about you.”
    Mr. Hartley stared straight ahead. She saw his Adam’s apple dip as he swallowed. “What did he say?”
    She shrugged, pretending interest in the window of a lace shop as they passed. It had been years since last she’d pored over Reynaud’s letters, but she knew the contents of every single one by heart.
    “He said that an American corporal had been assigned to his regiment, that he admired your tracking ability. He said that he trusted you above all the other scouts, even the native Indians. He said that you showed him how to discern the difference between the native tribes. That the Mohicans wore their hair in a bristle at the top of their head and that the Wy-Wy—”
    “Wyandot,” he said softly.
    “Wyandot were fond of the colors red and black and favored a long piece of cloth worn in front and back—”
    “A breech clout.”
    “Just so.” She looked down. “He said he liked you.”
    She felt the movement of his chest against the back of her hand as he inhaled. “Thank you.”
    She nodded. There was no need to ask what he thanked her for. “How long did you know him?”
    “Not long,” he said. “After the Battle of Quebec, I was attached to the 28th informally. I was only supposed to march with them until they reached Fort Edward, help scout the way. I knew your brother for a couple of months, maybe a little more. Then, of course, we came to Spinner’s Falls.”
    He had no need to say more. Spinner’s Falls was where they had all died, caught in the cross fire from two groups of Wyandot Indians. She’d read the accounts that were written in the newspapers. Few survivors of the massacre actually wanted to talk of it. Fewer still were willing to discuss it with a woman.
    Emeline inhaled. “Did you see him die?”
    She felt him turn to stare at her. “My lady—”
    Emeline twisted a ruffle at her waist until she felt silk tear. “Did you see him die?”
    He blew out a breath, and when he spoke, his voice was tight. “No.”
    She let the bit of fabric go. Was it relief she felt?
    “Why do you ask? Surely it does no good to hear—”
    “Because I want—no, I need —to know what it was like for him at the last.” She glanced at Mr. Hartley’s face and knew from the slight indent between his brows that he was puzzled. She gazed sightlessly ahead as she tried to find the words for her thoughts. “If I can understand, perhaps feel, just a little of what he went through, I can be closer to him.”
    He was frowning harder now. “He’s dead. I doubt that your brother would want you to brood thus over his death.”
    She chuckled, but it came out a dry exhalation of air. “But as you say, he is dead. What he would or would not want no longer matters.”
    Ah, now she had shocked him. Men were sure that ladies were to be shielded from life’s harsh realities. Men, poor dears, were so naive. Did they think childbirth was a stroll before luncheon?
    But he rallied fast, this strange colonialist. “Please explain.”
    “I do this for myself, not Reynaud.” She puffed out a breath. Why did she even bother? He wouldn’t understand. “My brother was so young when he died, just eight and twenty, and there were many things left undone in his life. I have only a finite number of memories of him. There will never be any more.”
    She