by Lisa E. Pugh
“Do you wish to tell me about them?”
She hesitated. For one moment, just a brief second, she actually considered the idea. He had confided in her. What would it feel like to do the same to him?
Eventually, she shook her head. “Not really. I'd rather not think about it at all.”
“Sleep then. I'll make sure the monsters stay in their closets.”
She laughed at his teasing gallantry. Then, with a sigh, she looked at him from under her hand. “You’re sure you won’t mind? I've no idea how long I’m likely to remain unconscious.”
“Rest as long as you want. I can read here and wait. Your mere presence will keep me from feeling at all lonely or discontented.”
Lowering herself onto the cushions, she smiled with a blush. “Thank you. Hopefully, I won’t need to lie here for very long.” She yawned, and drifted into a doze.
Christopher smiled at her gentle snoring. How strange his life had become in just a few short weeks. After seeing her from a distance, he took a chance and invited her to meet with him. They actually became friends very quickly. In fact, they seemed to fit together perfectly, two pieces of the same puzzle.
Already, she trusted him and felt easy and comfortable in his presence. She dropped her guard completely when he was around. The mere fact that she could fall asleep in the same room with him proved that.
She had accepted him, forming bonds of friendship without seeing his face. She barely seemed to notice his cowl anymore. Perhaps there was a chance for him yet.
He picked a book up off a side table and began to read.
Chapter 16
Christopher tried to concentrate on his book. He truly did. Yet, it was a fool's errand, and he knew it. How could he read a musty old tome when an exquisite woman lay sleeping a scant few feet from him? His eyes were continually drawn to her like a flight of moths to a shining candelabrum.
He had to admit, despite her natural beauty, she did look remarkably haggard. Her face was pale, and her eyes seemed sunken in their sockets. When he saw her as she arrived, he was afraid she would collapse where she stood. He led her to the couch so she could sit down before she fell down.
When he learned she had struggled to drive to his home but had fought through it anyway, he stared at her in genuine amazement. She risked her life to see him—him, a virtual stranger. Her determination and willingness to put her life in danger on his behalf humbled and rather frightened him.
What could have caused her such agitation that she would not be able to sleep at all? What could have brought about such nightmares? He did not know, but he decided to do his damnedest to make the day a wonderful counterpoint.
Christopher was unsure of how long he had studied the pages of his volume when Margaret’s sleep became troubled. A slight moan escaped her lips. Her head twitched to the side once, then twice. He looked up.
Her breathing increased. Her hands seized the covers. He straightened in his chair, immediately alert and apprehensive.
Suddenly, her legs kicked spasmodically as if trying to run. Her whole body began to shudder. He bounded out of his chair and rushed to her.
He knelt at her side, calling to her softly. She did not respond. He gently tapped her arm. She whimpered, unaware that he was even there. She rocked back and forth. Her head swung from side to side violently.
Becoming increasingly alarmed, he shook her shoulders. He ordered her to wake up. Her moans became mumbled words, which grew in volume.
“No, no, no! Don’t! For God’s sake, Edward, don’t!” At her last words, she lurched up. He stumbled back, almost falling over in his haste.
She inhaled deeply as her eyes shot open. She glanced around with a wild look on her face. Her hands clasped against her chest, she heaved in deep breaths of air.
Panting, she swore, “Oh God! Oh Edward! The blood!”
“Maggie!” the earl demanded sharply, shaking her to get her attention. Edward? Blood? What the hell was she imagining?
Turning to her companion, she stared, desperate and unseeing. Tears of horror glimmered in her eyes. Ghosts stalked the hazel depths, searching for victims.
He kept calling to her. It seemed an eternity before her eyes finally focused. Suddenly, she blinked.
“Maggie, are you all right?” he asked tensely. It was a stupid thing to ask—she obviously was far from well—but it was all he could think to say.
“Christopher?” She blinked again and looked up. Recognition flared in her eyes. She finally saw him. She was truly awake at last.
“Oh, thank God!” Christopher swore.
By the slightest hair and using all his discipline, he kept himself from pulling her into his arms. He held her elbows firmly instead, supporting her. When he was sure she was fully conscious, he released them.
She half-collapsed against him, shuddering. Her hands clutched his shirt tightly. Whimpering, she buried her face against his chest.
Her sudden movements startled him. He had not expected such an intimate outcome. Her unintentional impropriety boggled his mind. More than anything, however, he was shocked to have her pressing against him.
She clung to him desperately. Her breath came in ragged trembling sighs. In any other situation, it would be thrilling, delightful, and exciting. At this moment, however, it was simply disturbing.
He patted her back and slowly wrapped her in a comforting embrace. “It’s all right, Maggie. It'll be all right. You’re safe, and everything's fine.”
The reaction hit, as he knew it would. She began to shiver and cry. He had been through this dozens of times, but seeing it from the outside was a new and distressing experience. All he could think to do was hold her, caress her hair, and reassure her of his concern and protection. Finally he understood why, after one of his nervous attacks, his mother often seemed as exhausted as he was.
Gradually, her tears stopped and her breathing calmed. Suddenly, she tensed and pulled away. She had become aware that she clasped his shirt in a death grip and lay nestled against him. He let her go.
She fidgeted, nervously pushing her hair behind her ear. “What happened?”
“You had a nightmare. Quite impressive, I must say.” He tried to sound blasé, but he was still shaken and his voice would not cooperate.
“I’m sorry.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry about. I was surprised, however. I thought screaming night terrors were my department.” He managed a slightly uncomfortable chuckle and a teasing grin. She never saw the grin; his hood hid it from her.
At last, she smiled. “Well, we can’t have you holding a monopoly, can we?”
Christopher laughed, relaxing a bit. His Maggie was back to her usual form. “I suppose not.” He paused. “Who is Edward, if I’m not prying?”
“I called for Edward?” She blinked.
“You did.”
“He is… was my brother.” She ran a nervous hand through her hair. “He, um, died during the war. He was the third and last of my brothers to go—the eldest of the four of us.”
“Of the four of you? So there’s…”
“No men left in my family. The war took them all. My family name, from my father’s long line, will soon be extinct.”
“I’m sorry.” He thought a moment. “It seemed you were trying to keep him from doing something or from something happening to him.”
“You know I worked in a hospital during the war. He was sent in for treatment shortly before he died, so I saw him just before and just after his death.” She shuddered and dropped her gaze. “I’ll never forget the scene, white sheets splashed with red.”
“Good lord!”
She had worked at Craiglockhart. Her brother died there surrounded by blood. What could have happened in a mental institution to result in such a death? There were several possibilities, none of them good.
She sighed, rubbing her face. “I’ve always felt that I should have been able to do something. I simply never can figure out what that could have been.”
<
br /> Such feelings of helplessness at needless deaths he could understand. Christopher put a hand on her shoulder. “There was nothing you could have done. It was the War. I lost many of my friends in France and Flanders, even a few in Egypt and Palestine. I often wonder whether I could have saved them, had I been able to go. From what I’ve read, all I’d have done is die on the battlefield—one more body amongst millions. There was no glory to be had, no magic way to survive. You just slogged through it and hoped your luck didn’t run out.”
“I know.” She stared at her hands. “I know. What a waste.”
“Yes.” He gazed at her intently. “Are you all right now? Do you need anything? Water? Sherry?”
She passed a hand along the back of her neck and sat upright. “Water, please. My throat is parched.”
“Of course.” Delighted to have something useful to do, he rose, went to a water jug on a side table, and poured her a large tumblerful. He sat beside her and offered the glass. She took it gratefully and quaffed it in three gulps.
“You were thirsty!” he remarked.
She just shrugged with a sheepish grin. Taking a deep breath, she relaxed. Then she handed him the empty glass.
“More?”
“No, thank you. That helped very much.”
“So, what now?” he asked, slapping his hands decisively on his knees.
She glanced around, looking so lost and alone it hurt his heart. “I don’t know.”
“Would you like a game of charades, perhaps? Or bridge? No, you need too many people for that. Draughts?”
Maggie paused. What could they do? Was there a game in the entire world they could play that could bury the images which were so prominent in her mind?
She could still see her brother’s body, dressed in his hospital-issued dressing gown, lying across the bed, his brains splattered against the wall.
He had shot himself through the throat. The bullet exited out the back of his head. His bloodstained face was bizarrely peaceful against the carnage.
When she later read the manuscript he shoved into her hands moments before he died, she found that he chose his angle carefully. It was one he had seen and caused many times in the war, and it guaranteed instantaneous death. He knew how it was done. He had chosen it for her. He wanted her to see that he was finally at peace.
She shivered. She had talked to her brother minutes before he killed himself. He seemed so normal, happier than he had been in weeks. It was all a trick. He did not wanted her to stop him. He just wanted the quiet sleep of death.
She took a deep breath and forced the images back behind the mental barriers the stress of the last few days had blasted open. Those were thoughts for another time. Now she had a friend to amuse.
Christopher was so kind and attentive. His fingers stroked her face and the back of her hands. She was vulnerable, and he took no advantage.
She had just made a fool of herself, and he was gallantly ignoring it. In fact, he was trying his best to distract her from her bitter memories. He was so perfect.
Suddenly and inexplicably, a desire to see his face flooded her. Perhaps it was feeling his strong arms around her. It felt good to have someone from whom she could draw strength and comfort. Maybe it was her dream’s reminder that time never stands still. Or maybe it was the wonderful compassion, trust, and concern he showed her—a concern she knew she was about to repay with an affront.
Her emotions were all mixed up in an agitated mass of contradictions. She knew she shouldn't ask him to reveal himself. It was unfair as well as rude. Yet she couldn't stop thinking about his hidden visage and what might be concealed in shadows.
She felt like Bluebeard’s wife holding a key to the locked door and fighting temptation to open it. A part of her might have felt that, in choosing to stay with him so long in the face of insults and vile threats, she in some way earned the right to ask. Had she not risked life and limb to drive here?
Whatever the reason, she knew that she did not want to wait any longer. She wanted to see him—really see him. She needed to know what he looked like, for good or ill.
Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes. When she opened them, she stared at the carpet. This was going to be a hard thing to ask. She preferred not to look at him until she was well underway.
“Christopher, would you do something for me?”
“Anything, Maggie.”
His voice was quiet and fervent. He meant what he said. She winced and hesitated before she spoke again. How would he react?
“Will you”—bracing herself, she suddenly gazed up at him—“show me your face?”
Christopher froze. For a horrible prolonged moment, he did not even breathe. He could not think or react.
His mind seemed stalled like a car on a steep hill. He could not believe she had asked such a thing. She knew how he detested his altered visage—how he hated to be stared at, gawked at, or studied.
She had always respected his wishes up to this point. What had changed? Was there something about the nightmare that prompted this request?
He inhaled sharply as the revelation hit. She had tricked him, caught him in Salome’s old snare. Patient as a spider, she waited for a vulnerable moment when he was too upset to reason clearly. She planned for that horrible moment when he would promise her anything.
He had been so worried about her. So glad she was feeling better, he swore to do anything she wanted. He agreed to it without thinking. Never would he have thought that she might ask the one thing he could not—would not do.
Had her nightmare been counterfeit? It seemed real, but so had his fiancée’s love. He knew only too well how false that had been.
Had this woman deceived him as well, knowing his honor would not tolerate breaking a promise? Could his Maggie be so calculating? She never appeared disingenuous, and yet…
Yes, she had done it. Sure as he was an Englishman, she carefully arranged the whole thing. She laid a trap, using herself as bait. He would have never believed her capable, but it all made perfect sense.
He straightened his back at her effrontery. He would not be manipulated. He would not let her trick him into revealing his face. How dare she even try!
No, he would not do it. It was not fear that prevented him now. It was anger—anger at her betrayal and at himself for trusting her or anyone as far as he had. He reached out for friendship and was slapped down for his efforts.
He should have known not to trust a woman. They were deceitful creatures all. His experience with his former betrothed showed him that. He had needed the human connection too much to remember that truth. Now, it twisted around and bit him like an angry cur.
There was no fear of rejection anymore. If it would not give her precisely what she wanted, he would drop the cowl at once and let her react however she bloody well pleased! He was so hurt and furious at that instant, he felt he could serenely watch as she was dragged into Hell.
Finally, he simply said, “No.”
Margaret shivered. It was not just the glacial quality of his refusal. It was not even the low rumbling sneer in his voice. The moment she requested the one thing he would never want to do, his entire demeanor—indeed, the atmosphere of the whole room—changed. The temperature plummeted, and he straightened to his full august height. A distinct aura of disgust and rage rolled off him in waves. It terrified her.
“Wha-… what?” she stammered.
“I said, no. I shall not do as you ask. I refuse to accede to your request. I will not respond like some performing poodle.” He rose from his seat. “Is that clear enough for you? And now, Salome, I will leave you and go where the air is less polluted.”
As he turned around and strode toward the French doors, she repeated obtusely, “Salome?”
Without looking at her, he stopped. “Yes. At least Herod got to see his strumpet of a step-daughter dance.” He swung around, plainly glaring at her. “Do you dance, Miss Taylor?”
“No,” she replied automatically, still in shoc
k.
“No? That’s a pity. I’d have loved to have seen your best slither.” He stalked out of the room.
After his exit, the room thawed slowly. The icy chill in Margaret’s veins took longer to melt. She sat stunned. His verbal onslaught left her shaking and breathless. She felt tears seeping into her eyes.
She had expected him to say no. She knew he would be upset. She had not expected the contempt, the cold rage, or the charge of betrayal.
With a gasp, she realized what had just happened. She had ruined everything. She asked a question, and their friendship simply evaporated. With one petition, she seemed to have lost all his trust, respect, and gentle regard.
She stiffened. It was unfair! Her request was not an unusual one when all was considered. If their relationship was to progress, sooner or later she would have to see his face.
It was one thing for him to say he was not ready for that step. It was quite another to compare her with a Biblical woman whose reputation rivaled Mary Magdalene’s. Such an insult was totally uncalled for. And then to imply that she behaved like a snake! It was too much!
She stood shakily to her feet, grabbed her handbag, and stormed out of the room in the direction of the foyer. She was getting out, this instant. She could not stay here. There was no reason to remain in this house one moment more.
Rushing through the front hall, she nearly collided with Brenlaw at the base of the stairs. She skidded to a halt, slipping on the tiles. He grasped her arms before she fell and steadied her.
“I’m sorry, miss,” the butler began. A second later, he noticed her wet eyes and tightly clutched handbag. “Are you leaving, miss?”
“Yes, Brenlaw, I'm leaving.” Her voice quavered, and her eyes gleamed with anger and unshed tears. “I’ve had quite enough insults for one day. And you may tell his lordship that if he wishes to speak to me, the serpent Salome will be in her cottage for the rest of the afternoon. Goodbye, Brenlaw. I’ll show myself out.”
