Unexpected Danger

by Lisa E. Pugh

  Maggie nodded and pressed his hand. She recognized the step he took with that decision. At that moment, he decided to live, to get better rather than waste away, and that made a huge difference.

  He sighed. “That was the true start of my recovery. I began to work hard to regain my strength, whereas before I had let it come back on its own. I lifted books and potted plants to strengthen my back and arms. I tried to stand and walk every day.”

  A touch of mischief entered his voice. “I practiced in the sculpture garden away from the sight of everyone. I wanted it to be a surprise. And it was. The look of amazement and joy on my parents’ faces when I approached them using crutches was incredible. Then one day, while my mother was in her rose garden, I entered using nothing but this cane. She ran to me and held me, crying and laughing at the same time. I’ve never felt so proud. Before she died a year later, she saw me walk unaided.”

  “Wonderful.”

  She could almost see the woman from the painting, standing amid her roses, watching her son walk to her for the first time in months. The older woman’s mouth gaped as she stared. Clippers dangled loose in gloved hands. Her eyes glittered with tears of joy.

  He continued thoughtfully. “I had allowed my mind to stagnate during the early phase of my convalescence. As I strengthened my body, I also began to read voraciously. I’ve probably read most of my father’s library. In the end, he and I could hold political and philosophical discussions that didn’t devolve into shouting matches.”

  Maggie smiled. He had such triumph in his voice when he spoke of his détente with his father. Considering what he indicated before, that particular change was probably an immense achievement.

  “I also began to build and work with things. I created a self-watering system. It collects rainwater, delivering it to each plant, which saves time and labor. It is used in all the vegetable gardens and greenhouses now. The year needs to be particularly dry for the flowers to need any supplement from the house’s water supply.”

  “That sounds amazing. I’d love to see it sometime. My father was always looking for new ways to help the estate, and I became interested in such things. He had a great imagination when it came to things like that.”

  “I was very proud of myself. We’ve had great soldiers and politicians in my family, but I don’t recall ever hearing about an inventor before.”

  He paused. “After my parents died… I don’t know. I lost interest in a lot of things. I still read, still tinkered with ideas and still exercised, but it was more to keep myself busy. It was not as if I planned to go out into the world and use my skills. I became a dilettante, a hobbyist. I suppose I haven’t had a true direction in years.”

  “I understand. Before I began writing in earnest, I didn’t have much of a purpose in life either. I still wonder if writing novels and political articles is the right use of my time.”

  “I’m not the best judge of good ways to spend time.” He chuckled wryly. Pausing a moment, he looked around and sighed. “Maybe I’ve become a little detached from reality here. It’s not hard to do when you have servants to wait on you and an isolated property within which to hide. Do I seem at all barmy to you?”

  She laughed. “No more than the rest of us.”

  “Ah! Hmm… is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

  “Well, your behavior generally wouldn’t stand out in a crowd.”

  “The monk’s cowl might attract attention though,” he remarked lightly.

  “Probably, yes,” she admitted with a grin.

  “Mind you, my face would be more arresting than my hood.”

  “Perhaps. I have no idea.” She paused, shaking her head. “What an odd conversation!”

  He shrugged. “We’re an odd pair. Where else can you find a woman who would tolerate any type of relationship when she never sees her companion’s face?”

  “True. And though I’m sure you meant it as a manner of speech, I must say that I more than tolerate this relationship. I enjoy your company and look forward to every visit.”

  “Thank you,” he replied quietly.

  “You’re a good friend, Lord Yawron,” She grinned, playfully using his formal name, “if a little neurotic.”

  He turned to face her, the shadows covering his face like a mask. “Does it bother you terribly? Not seeing my face, I mean.”

  “Not terribly.” She thought a moment and unconsciously removed her hand from his. It joined its mate in her lap. Her thumbs rubbed together distractedly. “Sometimes I would like to see your face. I want to know if I upset you with what I say. I do tend to be impulsive in my speech. And I suppose there’s a natural desire for people to want eye contact. Other times I forget about the hood entirely. I feel I can imagine your expression, your smile or frown.”

  “How? What do you base it on?”

  “I draw on the pictures in your mother’s room. That first night when I stayed there, I saw the painting and the photographs. That is the face I see.”

  Christopher laughed incredulously. “I haven’t looked like that in over fifteen years.”

  Margaret shrugged. “I know it probably isn’t all that accurate. It’s all I have to go on.”

  “It's not even close to reality.”

  She added brightly. “I won’t hold you to it. I probably don’t look as I did fifteen years ago either.”

  “No. You’ve probably improved with age. I, on the other hand… Quasimodo’s first cousin, me.”

  “I’m sure you’re not.”

  Not accepting her soothing bromide, he scoffed, “You’re right. That would be an insult to Quasimodo. He’s a handsome prince in comparison.”

  Shocked by his vitriol, she reacted. Turning away sharply, she exclaimed, “Please, Christopher!”

  She did not know precisely why his reaction this time upset her so much. He never hid his disdain for his altered appearance. Yet, since it was so different from his usual smooth manner, his harsh bitterness and self-loathing scraped her nerves. She wanted to put her hands over her ears like a child.

  “What?” he asked, a sardonic challenge in his voice.

  “Please stop talking like that.”

  “I’m only speaking the truth. Would you rather I lied and said I looked like some film idol?”

  She turned back and looked at him earnestly. “No, but you don’t have to be so vicious to yourself.”

  The earl barked a laugh. “You sound like my mother. She was always going on about accepting what God gave me and making the most of what I had.”

  “Maybe you should have listened to her,” she replied harshly, irritated by his dismissive attitude.

  Instantly, he straightened his back. The air around them chilled. “Perhaps I should have. She was my mother, and I owed her that much at the very least. To you, however, I have no such obligations.”

  Margaret’s temper sparked. She opened her mouth to reply and then shut it like a bear-trap. She spun back around to stare at the beauty around them. The bright colors seemed a little grayer, a little duller on second glance, as if she was looking at a hand-painted photograph.

  After a resentful silence, she dropped her gaze, took a deep breath, and admitted, “You’re right, Christopher. I have no claim on you beyond that of a fledgling friendship. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that. I certainly shouldn’t have involved your mother.”

  “No, you probably shouldn’t have,” he replied quietly.

  She frowned and spoke swiftly, her tone begging him to understand her, “Yet, I… care for you, and, because of that, your bitterness is painful to hear.”

  He reached over and grasped her hand. “Thank you, Maggie. Your concern means much to me. I shouldn’t be so dismissive of it. Believe me, however, when I say that it is more from habit than true bitterness that I say such things. I’ve always had a dark sense of humor, and the last decade and a half has given my sharp wit plenty of ammunition. Sometimes I forget that what I say about myself might upset those around me. I shall try to
curb this tendency in future.”

  Margaret looked up and smiled. “Thank you, Christopher. And I will try to keep my maternal comments to myself.”

  “Pax?”

  “Pax.” She put out her hand. He took it in a strong yet careful grip. Raising it slowly, he kissed her fingers.

  At the touch of his lips, her skin tingled. She caught her breath in surprise. Her hand twitched slightly as a shiver ran down her spine.

  She hadn't known what to expect when he lifted her fingers. Almost anything could be concealed inside his hood. His lips might have been so torn up that they were a maze of scars. He might have had no lips at all.

  What she felt was a warm tender kiss from a firm gentle mouth. The approach was slightly to one side as if he were avoiding part of his face. Yet, he did it almost instinctively. There was no faltering unease or self-consciousness about it. His move was pure politeness.

  She didn’t pull away! Christopher crowed in his mind.

  When he first lifted Maggie’s fingers to his mouth, there was a slight hesitancy. That was hardly surprising. She had expected a handshake, after all. The tension soon dissipated, however.

  As he had done with his mother, he brought her fingers to the unscathed side of his face. There was no reason for her to be disturbed by the feel of his scars. Then, he kissed her skin at last.

  His heart leaped like a deer. His body trembled. He even imagined that her fingers shook as well. And she did not withdraw her hand! That fact alone made him giddy beyond words.

  He kept the display of affection brief. He must maintain decorum, if only for her comfort’s sake. He did not wish to overstep his bounds or alienate her through rash action. The stakes were too high for that sort of gamble.

  He lowered her hand slowly. “Thank you, Maggie. I do… value your friendship.”

  His voice barely rose above a deep, earnest murmur. Its tone was rich, vibrant, and masculine. Margaret had never heard anything so beautiful and disconcerting.

  “You’re very welcome,” she replied through a tight throat.

  Suddenly, the sound of a gong boomed over the garden. She jerked, suddenly aware of where she was and what they were doing. He did not flinch, but stood smoothly, easily. Taking his offered hand, Maggie rose, and they strolled to the house for tea.

  Though she managed to sustain conversation, she felt oddly distracted throughout the meal. Her nerves seemed jangled. Her hands trembled. Later, she could not even remember what they talked about.

  However, long after she returned home, her fingers still felt his kiss.

  Chapter 14

  “Be careful, Mags,” Lara warned the next day at lunch. “This isn’t a stray animal, and this isn’t your brother restored. He’s a man, and his feelings for you are anything but fraternal.”

  “I know.” Margaret grinned. “Isn’t it exciting?”

  “Don’t be flippant!”

  “Am I being flippant?” she asked, a little acidly.

  “I’m worried about you.”

  Margaret sighed. “Why?”

  “We have to think about this rationally. This is serious.”

  “What makes you think I don’t feel the same way he does?” she challenged.

  Lara rolled her eyes. “Don’t try to be amusing either.”

  “I’m not. I really care for him.”

  “Do you love him? Are you in love with him? Because it's moderately obvious that he's totally potty over you.”

  Margaret thought a moment. “I don’t know. I probably could fall in love with him. He's tall, well built, refined, and gracious. He has a voice that can make my nerves quiver. When he kissed my hand, my heart flipped. Yet, I have no idea what he actually looks like, and being in love has such a physical element, doesn’t it?”

  “So I'm told.” Lara grinned wryly.

  “From the photographs I saw, I know that, if I had met him before the automobile crash, I probably would have found his looks irresistible. What are they like now? Is he so horrid to look at that he has to keep his face covered to prevent instant and overpowering nausea? Or is he just over-sensitive about a scarred face?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t answer that. You may have to take the initiative and ask him to remove his cowl.”

  She frowned, her mind racing over the possibilities. “I haven't asked before. I even said I wouldn't go where I'm not invited. It’d be so unfair to request it now. Not to mention rude.”

  “Perhaps, but it may be the only way to know how you feel about him, all of him. Is it fair to let him go on wondering if you have a chance together when a simple look beneath the hood would reveal all, so to speak?”

  Maggie ran a hand over her face. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll ask him tomorrow.”

  “You're seeing him again, so soon?”

  “What can I say? I enjoy his company. Besides, my social calendar has been a trifle empty since the rumor mill started… if you ignore the vulgar offers made by some of the young men in the village.”

  “Disgusting!” She thought a moment. “It can’t hurt to ask his lordship for this favor, Mags.”

  “It wouldn’t hurt me to ask, perhaps. I’m not so sure how unscathed such a question would leave him.”

  Arriving at home late that evening, she saw a thick envelope on her foyer floor. Her scrawled name on the front left no doubt as to the sender. It was yet another message from the poison-pen writer.

  She hesitated, not eager to see what was inside. The letters had grown increasingly venomous, crude, and repulsive in their attacks. Even during the storms, her persecutor managed to deliver abuse to her door. If anything, the violent darkness seemed to encourage the perpetrator’s imagination, resulting in multiple salvos each day. This parcel was now the eighth delivery of its kind.

  She lifted the soft package and opened it. Inside, she found the expected note and a piece of butcher paper wrapped around something spongy. A grotesque and obscene drawing smeared with the blood of some animal decorated the outside of the inner parcel. A warm stinking pile of offal lay within it.

  This time, the message was raving and unambiguous.

  “Margaret Taylor, you damned barefaced slut!

  A London tart is a pure saint compared to you.

  You deserve to be cut open on the village green so that others can spit on your entrails.

  You should be violated until you bleed.

  If every man in town had his turn, you couldn’t be a more stinking whore than you are now.

  Don’t see him again, bitch, or you'll regret it!”

  Margaret's nerveless fingers dropped the note and its contents. The viscera splashed on the floor, spattering her shoes. Slowly, the note floated onto the hardwood and lay beside the spreading red stain.

  She stood completely still for a long moment. Her brain refused to work. Her eyes refused to blink.

  With a sudden jerk, she stumbled back. She fought down the bile rising in her throat. It wouldn't be denied. She spun away and spilled her guts into the nearest rubbish bin.

  Gagging and heaving, she collapsed against the wall. She shivered and stared in revulsion at the mess on the floor. The crimson fluid spilled long tendrils across the hardwood, reaching for her. She shrunk back as if from a stalking animal.

  This was a new degree of putrid abuse. For the first time, Margaret actually questioned the sanity of the poison-pen writer. Who would send someone such disgusting filth? Why did this stranger seem to hate her so much?

  Suddenly, she considered what this writer would do to her if he or she ever decided to follow word with action. The images from the letter poured into her mind. She shuddered at the horror of them.

  Her first impulse was to run as far from the foul thing as she could. Though she paid a small fortune to have a telephone in the cottage, she could not call for help. Without any knowledge of the previous letters, she'd sound like a lunatic to anyone who listened to her. The telephone operator in the post office would hear what she said to the police. By m
idday tomorrow, the story of this incident would be all over the village.

  Even if she told the constable about the letters, he would hardly come out to her place at this hour. Not for a poison-pen letter. Her reputation in the village was such that foul things were said about her all the time. True, the threatening nature of the letter was new, but would he believe it?

  He would probably pass it off as a sick joke. He might even think she created it herself. She had thrown out the others, so she could not show the escalating violence.

  Should she call his lordship? She knew the estate had telephone service. Would he take her seriously? Given the vile nature of the note, he could hardly claim she was overreacting or behaving hysterically.

  What could he do about it? Send Brenlaw or one of the other menservants over as a bodyguard? For a second, she was tempted to ask him for precisely that. She might be seen as a weak and swooning female, but at least she would be alive.

  Yet calling at this time of night was grotesque, and the woman at the telephone exchange would definitely overhear their conversation. Asking the earl for help, for men to guard her house? She had no intention of providing grist for the rumor mill if she could help it.

  One thing was certain. She was certainly not leaving her house tonight. She did not dare, not even to go to the police station. Just walking from her house to her car suddenly seemed an extremely dangerous venture. What if this mad person was waiting outside, in the shadows?

  She went around the house and made sure everything was secure. She locked and bolted the doors, moving heavy furniture in front them. As she went, she closed the curtains over all the windows. She lined the sills with every piece of glassware and crockery she could find. That way, if someone broke in, she would receive some advanced warning of their approach.