“Please, Sebastian. Let me admire you. All of you.” Tears sparkled on her cheeks, her hands tugging at him to sit.
What else could he do? Leave? What they had just shared made that option impossible, although he was sorely tempted to close the space between him and the door, afraid of her questions and the look in her eyes. Yet, inexplicably, all he saw in her eyes was tenderness.
He could share this one part of his past. One small secret, he decided. Not the why, but the how. Never the why. He resigned himself to share this but regretted it was being said on their wedding night.
He sat on the edge of the bed, his back to her, nervous that he couldn’t see her.
A decade passed, maybe two decades, hell maybe a century. He felt himself aging as he sat on the side of the bed, waiting for her to say something, anything, but then he felt her fingers on his skin, tracing a line across his back. Warm fingers against his cold flesh. He flinched.
Silk fingertips traced back and forth, up and down, following every scar, covering the hundreds of lines on his skin. A few times her fingers reached the back of his arms, as though tracing an especially long scar where the whip had licked his arm.
She whispered, soothingly, observingly, “So many different marks. Some are deep recesses. Some raised ridges. Some are jagged, red lines flat against your skin.”
Then he felt her lips against his skin, kissing the length of a scar. He inadvertently arched away from her.
“Don’t,” he barked more gruffly than he had intended.
They sat in silence for another decade before he felt her lips on his skin again, tentative. This time he closed his eyes and allowed her.
He wanted to weep. Her loving affection swelled his heart against the steel trap, fighting the constraints. He heaved silent, dry sobs against her soft lips.
Kisses caressed his flesh, some he couldn’t feel, the skin so damaged where her lips touched, others moist and warm, a healing balm.
“He favored the wet whip.” His voice creaked hoarsely.
“Your father?” She asked, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, kissing the back of his neck.
How could she possibly have known that? He must have said something at some point, but he couldn’t recall speaking despairingly against his father to her.
He nodded in answer to her question. Her body pressed against his back, shielding him, protecting him. God, he should feel self-conscious, unmanned in this moment, but instead he felt desired, even encouraged through her support.
“When he didn’t have the whip, he used whatever was at hand. Cane, stick, horse crop. The first time was the fire poker.” He heard her gasp and felt her bury her face against his neck. “You don’t have to look, you know. I can keep the shirt on in the future.”
She tightened her grip around him, her hair tickling his skin as she moved. “You’re beautiful, Sebastian. I want to see you.”
He reached for the glass of water and refreshed himself before saying more.
“It started when my mother died. The beatings. After I—.” He stopped himself, omitting the catalyst, then continued instead with, “After I disappointed him. Before she died, he ignored me, ignored us, preferring to travel more than be home. I would do things to get his attention. I wanted his attention so badly, naive boy that I was. I became unruly, undisciplined, defying him at every turn. I did things, Lizbeth, things that needed to be punished. I deserved every lash.”
“Oh, Sebastian. No, no, no. No one deserves to be beaten, least of all a child. How long after her death did this begin? You were only seven when she died. I remember.”
He said nothing, letting the silence fester.
Kissing his shoulder, she insisted, “Whatever you did, you didn’t deserve this treatment. The man I know is a good man.”
“The man you know hasn’t been around for long. I’ve become this man only since the inheritance. Without Drake, I wouldn’t even be alive. I hated my father so much that I tried every means of escape. From liquor to gambling and whores. I had a death wish, welcomed death, really. Drake pulled me out of the muck, literally and figuratively, long enough for my father to die. I swore to turn my life around, to rebuild the family name. While nothing will redeem my wrongs, I have devoted my life to becoming a better person. That doesn’t change who I was, who I am at the core.”
“You are this person, my darling. You are a wonderful person. Please, believe that,” she begged, her lips resting against his neck. When he didn’t respond, she asked, “What did the doctor say about the wounds? Why didn’t he give something to prevent the scarring?”
“My father never sent for a doctor.”
She gasped. “But some of these marks are quite deep! It’s remarkable you’re still alive.”
“The sea is the wisest healer I know. After every lashing, I ran as fast as my feet could take me to bathe in the ocean. The salt cleansed the wounds, the water the blood, the waves my soul.” His skin prickled as she traced the marks on the tops of his shoulders. “At times, I didn’t think I had the energy to make it, but I always mustered it somehow. Pure adrenaline and fear fueling my steps.”
She started tugging at his hair. What the devil? He swatted at her hand until she laughed, leaning away from him.
“Your hair ribbon is knotted. Let me take it out. I want to see your hair when it’s not tied back.” She tugged the ribbon right and left until it released his mane around his shoulders.
Hands combed through it, fanning it out, softening the wisps and frizzes caused by their lovemaking and subsequent sleep. He closed his eyes and let himself be petted and pampered.
When her hands slowed, he opened his eyes and moved himself back onto the bed to face her. “You haven’t asked what I did to deserve the beatings.”
Not that he would tell her, but why hadn’t she asked? Everything she did and said was the opposite of his expectation. She hadn’t run from the room. She hadn’t badgered him with questions. She hadn’t done anything but kiss and pet him.
“But you didn’t deserve it. Why would I ask such a question? No one deserves to be beaten.” She tucked her knees to her chest and placed one hand on his thigh.
“You don’t know that with certainty. I deserved the first beating at the very least. If you knew what I did, you would agree. For all you know, I could be as worthless as my father claimed me to be.”
“Oh, Sebastian.” She scooted closer to him, her feet resting against his shin. “You are not worthless. No child deserves abuse, ever, for any reason. You are all courage and kindness. Just look at what all you’ve done for your people since inheriting. Doesn’t that prove to you that you’re not worthless?”
“Not everything I do can redeem a life of poor choices.”
“No. No, I will not listen to you abuse yourself as your father did. Do not let him control you from the grave. We can’t always control what happens to us or what other people do to us, but we can control how we react, how we internalize it. Don’t let him control you. You are brave and good.”
She crawled onto his lap and snuggled against him, laying her head against his chest. “I would never have married you if I saw an inkling of darkness. All I see is kindness. Pain, yes, but that isn’t the same as darkness. Let me love you, Sebastian. Open yourself to a future of happiness.”
He wished so much he could do just what she said, but it wasn’t so easy. How does someone snap fingers and release the past when it has been all consuming, all encompassing? She didn’t know the whole story.
He loved her words and the sentiment behind them. He loved that she sat in his lap, still naked, embracing his shame and trying to kiss it away. He loved the idea of being loved and controlling his own future. But it was more complicated than that.
Chapter 25
Two days later, Lizbeth woke to the sound of the chamber door hitting the stone wall. She shoved pillows o
ff her head to investigate the ruckus.
Sebastian pirouetted into the room, a tray balancing in his hands, a bare foot reaching back to close the door.
“That wasn’t as graceful or as stealthy as I had planned.” He wore nothing but breeches and a smile, his mane free flowing around his shoulders.
He stacked pillows in front of her for a makeshift table and set down the tray. Two plates piled with breakfast treats, two cups of coffee, a pot of tea in a knit tea cozy, and a vase of wildflowers perched on the tray.
“You’re spoiling me.” She sniffed her plate, filled with more smoked herring, sausage, bacon, eggs, butter, honey, marmalade, jam, and rolls than she could ever eat. “Ooh, where did you get these flowers?”
“I picked them from the grounds, of course. I couldn’t bear to wake you, so I snuck away for a stroll and stole nature’s bounty.” He waved his hand at the buffet. “Breakfast in bed again today. But, I must be the bearer of sad tidings. Cook insists we eat in a more civilized manner from this point forward. I normally eat in the morning room where Gerald sets up a table for my grazing, so back to usual, I suppose. Ah, and Cook requests your assistance in planning meals. She’ll ensure the table is filled with your favorite delights.”
He kissed her forehead before crawling into bed beside her.
“Oh, no you don’t!” She scolded, trying to push him off.
“What is this abuse? You don’t want to break your fast with your husband? Shall I eat on the floor?” He affected a wounded expression as he slid off the bed and onto the floor, peering at her over the side of the bed sheet.
“No clothes! I refuse to be the only one eating naked. Off with them!” She glowered at his breeches.
“You’re a vixen of the first degree.” He stood, undressed, and climbed into bed, joining her under the covers. “Who am I to argue with the lady of the castle?”
They had spent every hour since the wedding night hiding in the bedchamber. She had not seen the wedding guests since the ceremony, nor had she seen any of the servants. Gerald, the butler, brought food trays when called, but otherwise they had been left in peace to explore each other, converse, and solve the mysteries of the modern world.
“Are you sure you don’t want a honeymoon abroad? Maybe a tour of Italy?” he asked as they ate.
“I wouldn’t trade breakfast in bed for Italy if you asked a hundred times.” She ran the palm of her hand across the thickening stubble on his face. “There is something I do want, though. Desperately.”
“If it is the moon, it might take time to craft a rope long enough, but, alas, I will try if it is your wish.” He winked and sipped the coffee.
“Tempting, but no. You’re off the hook on roping the moon. What I really want is a bath. A hot bath. And you, my lord, need a shave.”
“I knew something was amiss. Gerald wrinkled his nose and turned his head when I went down today for the breakfast trays. I must smell like sweat and sex. Mmmm.” He moaned, nuzzling his face into her hair. “If I smell anything like you, that is.”
She pinched his arm. “That’s disgusting! No wonder no one wanted to marry you if you say such vulgar things.”
“Oh ho, my lady! There you’re wrong. They fawned over me like lost lambs. It was I who would not marry them.” He flashed her a toothy grin before shoveling bacon.
“Nonsense. They only wanted you for your money. Why do you suppose I married you? I’m in it for the castle and the piles of gold you have hidden in the dungeon.” She tasted the coffee and found it smooth and rich, much more palatable than whatever bitterness they served at Lyonn Manor.
“You think I have an oubliette, do you? Well, I hate to disappoint, but despite popular opinion, few medieval castles had rooms of torture or holes of solitary. There wasn’t much point in keeping prisoners alive, you see. Although, if you have an interest in being bound and gagged…”
He reached down to the floor for the cravat in their pile of forgotten wedding clothes. He dangled the neckerchief in front of her before grabbing her wrist.
“How am I ever supposed to have a decent meal when I live with a heathen?” With her free hand, she threw a roll at him.
He laughed and tossed his cravat back to the floor.
“I was thinking we could take a walk along the beach today.” He eyed her as he noshed a herring.
“Oh, Sebastian, that would be lovely. I’ve wanted to see the beach since I visited last week. I’ll have you know that I only married you for the beach.”
“Wait, so not my stack of hidden gold?” He left a greasy and bristly kiss on her cheek.
She wondered if she could ever possibly be happier. There had been that little hiccup the night of the wedding, but nothing of it had been mentioned since, and he had acted confidently since then, making no attempts to cover his back.
This was the marriage of her dreams, the relationship she never thought possible. How absurd to have fretted about marrying him, to have believed for a second that life with him could be distant and convenient. This was the happy-ever-after she had dreamt of when she spurned all former proposals, wanting this or nothing.
Surely, he trusted her now, or was beginning to. After all, he had shared his closest held secret, one she suspected wounded his pride and shadowed his esteem. There couldn’t possibly be anything worse than the abuse he suffered at the hand of his own father, but if he held back anything, she felt confident he would share when ready. They had bonded over his secret, and she couldn’t be happier with the change in his mood, jovial, self-assured.
They had talked in bed between lovemaking, getting to know each other, sharing wishes, hopes, and dreams, battling wits, exploring viewpoints, exchanging experiences. In two days, she had divulged more to him than any other soul from the mundane to the spiritual. And the physical gratification they shared—oh, God in heaven, she had never known such bliss. If he was to be believed, neither had he, at least not to this level of intimacy, he had explained.
He was hesitant to talk about other women, but with some pressing, he confessed he had never known a gentlewoman’s touch, only those paid to love him, and always clothed except the pertinent areas. He swore he had lived the life of a monk for at least a decade, during which time he aimed to repurpose his life. Now he would be remiss to miss a day.
She loved knowing everything about him, having candid conversations as though they were equals. No propriety. No rules. Just the two of them against the world. She also loved his unusual life choices, especially the sleeping arrangements. She couldn’t imagine sleeping apart from him, unable to hear his heart beating against her ear, unable to wake in the middle of the night for lazy and exhausted lovemaking.
Deep inside, left unspoken, she was horrified that his father had been so cruel. Nothing on this earth could justify the beating of a child, and from the look of the scars and the tidbits she’d already heard of the father, she suspected the beatings started when he was young and continued until either Sebastian could fight back or be freed by his father’s death.
She didn’t dare ask for details. If he wanted to talk about it, he could, but she didn’t want to press. Something about the way he spoke on the wedding night, something in his tone and body language made her believe she would only gain his trust by letting him reveal the past in his own way at the right time. She couldn’t drag out the skeletons in his closet. Their past quarrels taught her the same lesson—he needed time to communicate in his own way. She hoped he was beginning to trust her.
Despite the bliss of the past two days, his self-villainization did worry her. Moving on from abuse was one thing, but accepting he had done nothing wrong, did not deserve that treatment, and would not allow it to control his life, was something different entirely. If he had gone through life letting that identity define him, he wasn’t likely to change his self-worth with a handful of compliments from her or even from encouraging pep talks. S
he didn’t know what else to do except show him love and understanding.
They called for a hot bath, and by the time they finished breakfast and loving each other, the tub was ready. They shared the bath, but before the end, they had sloshed most of the water on the stone floor.
Alas, for the first time in days, they readied to step into daylight as man and wife. Her possessions from Lyonn Manor had thankfully already arrived, but she still awaited those from Teghyiy Hall. Bettye freshened Lizbeth in a linen walking dress, and Sebastian’s valet shaved away his shadow.
It was decided after Sebastian continuously turned his head during shaving to get a better look of Bettye dressing Lizbeth that a shared dressing room was not the best plan, and Sebastian promised to make the needed arrangements for her private toilette.
They left the castle and half jogged down the steep slope to the north beach. Clouds dusted the sky. A moderate wind whooshed around them, gentle and breezy one minute then bossy and gusty the next.
Given they owned the beach and not another soul other than the household staff lived near them for miles, they violated every clothing etiquette in civilized society. Sebastian wore nothing but his breeches and a shirt, the shirt she had sewn for him as a wedding gift, and she only wore the linen dress. Neither wore stockings or shoes, hair pins or ribbons, hats, or anything else for that matter. Lizbeth felt positively free.
“This,” Sebastian explained, his fingers laced with her own as they walked, “is a nice place to dip into the ocean during low tide, but it’s a useless place during high tide, as you can see. Nothing but rocks for the shoreline. The beach is a bit farther of a walk but worth every step. A stretch of honeyed sands perfect for running or reflecting.”
“I think it’s beautifully dramatic.” She sighed with contentment, nearly disbelieving this was her new home, and that Sebastian was hers for all times. No more watching for him at a ball or wondering if he’d write. He was hers.
The Earl and The Enchantress (An Enchantress Novel Book 1) Page 24
