After the Kiss

by Joan Johnston

  Becky must also have seen her uncle riding, gone to wait for him at the stable, and fallen sound asleep. She had been right. It was her uncle who carried her back to her room at night and put her in bed.

  Marcus was not uncaring, Eliza realized. Merely unwilling to have his daughters shrink from him in horror if they saw his face.

  But she must see it. Would see it. She could see it, Eliza realized, if she confronted him now. There was no way he could stop her from removing the hood while he was holding Becky in both arms. He could not very well drop the child, and if she was quick enough …

  Eliza waited breathlessly until Marcus had reached the spot where she was hiding and stepped out directly in front of him.

  “Hello, Marcus.”

  He froze. His features were well hidden by the hood.

  Eliza knew she should do it now, before he suspected what she was about, but her courage failed her.

  You must do it. Everything depends on your fortitude. Whatever is there, you can hear it. Must hear it.

  But not yet, she thought. When I have said what must be said, then I will do it.

  “I don’t care much for the terms of our marriage so far,” she said baldly. “I needed to speak with you today, but Griggs turned me away.”

  “He was obeying my orders.”

  “What if I had needed you for something important?” she demanded.

  “Was it important?”

  “Did you know your brother may be alive?”

  “Griggs told me there is a chance Alastair is in Scotland, at Blackthorne Hall. So you see, there was no need after all for you to see me.”

  Eliza blew out a breath of air. “Is this really what you want, Marcus? Is there no other way we can arrange to live together?”

  He shook his head.

  Eliza made her move.

  Marcus was apparently so stunned that she would dare to remove his hood, that the deed was done before he could back away. Suddenly his head was bare.

  And she could see his face.

  Chapter 19

  Eliza fought not to cry out. The scars were not as terrible as she had expected. But the damage was not as little as she had hoped.

  “You have what you wanted,” Marcus snarled. “Are you satisfied?”

  She swallowed hard, forcing herself to look at him. With the moonlight at his back, she could not see enough of his features to get more than an impression of disfigurement.

  “You need a shave, Marcus,” she said as calmly as she could. “I cannot find your face for all the hair growing on it.”

  “There is a reason I do not shave,” he said, his body rigid with tension, his voice hoarse with rage.

  She fought to keep her gaze even with eyes that threatened violence. “I brought a looking glass with me to your bedroom tonight.”

  “I do not wish to see myself.”

  “Shall I describe what I see for you?” Before he could object, she said, “An unkempt head of hair. A beard that has grown wild. Two gleaming eyes. An aristocratic nose. I believe there must be a mouth beneath the beard, but I cannot see it.”

  She swallowed and said, “Your left eye is webbed with scars at the far edge near your temple, and your eyebrow is divided by the same line that travels down your cheek to separate your beard. Coincidentally, it is not much wider than the blade of a saber.

  “I would say the scar also cuts through the edge of your mouth. But it has not affected your speech that I can hear. Or any other use to which you have put your mouth,” she said quietly.

  She was remembering all the things he had done to her with his mouth the night past. And done very well.

  “I have seen your face, Marcus,” Eliza said. “And I have not fled screaming in terror.”

  “It is dark. You cannot see it as it really is!”

  “You are no monster, Marcus. Only a very foolish and frightened man.” Eliza turned to leave.

  “I expect to find you waiting for me,” he said, “after I have put Becky to bed.”

  She glanced at him over her shoulder. “And if I am not?”

  “I will come and get you.”

  Marcus felt confused, and as frightened as Eliza had accused him of being. She had challenged everything he had believed about himself for the past year. Was it possible the wounds had healed looking less terrible than when he had last seen them? Griggs had told him as much, but the sergeant was used to seeing desecrated bodies.

  Marcus was afraid to hope, afraid to believe that he might be able to move again in Society, or at least among his household servants, without them shrinking from him.

  He shifted Becky in his arms, trying to relieve the pressure on his clawlike hand and headed for the Abbey. He had felt the familiar tension building in the hand late in the afternoon and known what was coming. The cramps began as muscle twitches. The muscles steadily tightened over the next several hours until the wrenching spasms began. When the agony became unbearable, he drank himself into oblivion.

  He had gone riding soon after sundown in the hope that if he refused to acknowledge the pain, it would go away. Marcus had not realized how long he had been running from the inevitable, until Eliza confronted him at the stable. Under the circumstances, it had been insane to order his wife to be waiting for him in his bedroom. Rather, he should have sent her away and ordered a bottle of brandy from Griggs.

  But after seeing her barefoot, her hair flowing down her back in the moonlight, her nipples poking at the thin cloth, he had wanted her badly enough to deny the pain. He would take her quickly, he decided, push her and himself to the heights of ecstasy, where the pain could not follow, then send her away before the shrieking muscles unmanned him.

  On his way up the stairs to her bedroom, he shifted Becky again, accidentally waking her. He tensed, remembering that his hood no longer concealed his face.

  “Father?” she asked groggily.

  He realized she was still half asleep, and the hall was too dark for her to see him. “No, Becky. It is Uncle Marcus.”

  She snuggled against him trustingly. “I dreamed you were Father,” she mumbled.

  He waited for her to say more, but she had fallen back asleep. He was glad, because he had no way of getting her to bed except through the lighted doorway.

  He walked as quietly as he could across the bedroom and laid her gently on the bed beside Reggie who was sprawled out in the middle. He slipped Becky’s feet under the covers and pulled the sheet and coverlet up over her.

  When he leaned over to kiss Becky on the forehead, he realized that Reggie’s eyes were open. And that she was staring at him with wide-eyed horror.

  He quickly yanked the hood up over his face, blew out the candle, and whirled, cloak flying, to leave the room.

  The sound of Reggie screaming … and screaming … and screaming … followed him down the stairs all the way to the east wing. He was trembling, his heart pounding, when Griggs met him there.

  “See to the children, Griggs.” He met the sergeant’s eyes and said, “Reggie saw my face.”

  Marcus headed down the hallway toward his bedroom more furious with Eliza than he had been when she exposed his face in the moonlight. She had lied to him. Told him his face was bearable. Allowed him to hope.

  He slammed open his bedroom door and found her bent over a black kettle set on a hob over the fire. Too many candles, he thought. Too much light. She would see his face.

  And then he did not care. He saw her and wanted her and nothing else mattered.

  She rose quickly and smoothed her gown over her belly and hips, revealing even more of her body than she had in the moonlight.

  “Get in bed,” he said. “Now.”

  “No. Not until you shave. I have warmed water over the fire—”

  He reached her in two strides, grabbed her by the hair, and dragged her to the bed. He mantled her struggling body with his own, using his legs to force hers wide. As she bucked against him, he settled his engorged shaft in the cradle of her thighs.


  “Marcus, no! Don’t do this!” She pushed at his shoulders, freeing the hood, which fell back, exposing his face in the candlelight.

  Her eyes went wide with shock.

  His heart clutched. His stomach lurched. She had only been fooling herself. And him. The moonlight had softened the horror, had made him seem less of a beast and more of a man. The light revealed the truth in her eyes.

  She could not bear to look at him.

  Marcus never took his eyes off of hers as he lowered his mouth toward hers. When she tried to close her eyes, he rasped, “Look at me, Eliza. See what you have married. Love the beast, for that is what I am.”

  He crushed her lips with his, thrusting his tongue inside her mouth in a violent imitation of a loving act. His hand throbbed painfully, along with his shaft. He took no time to prepare her—there was no time before the pain would be upon him—simply grabbed the cloth gown and shoved it aside, freed himself, and thrust inside her.

  She was not ready for him, and he knew he had hurt her without hearing her cry of pain.

  “Marcus! Stop!”

  She pounded at his shoulders, yanked on his beard, left bloody scratches to mar what was left of his beauty.

  He paused, gasping, and stared down at her tear-streaked face. The horror was gone. Her golden eyes glared at him, daring him, defying him to continue.

  Suddenly his hand spasmed, the muscles clenching tight. He was still embedded deep inside her, his body throbbing. He closed his eyes and bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, but still the groan of agony escaped.

  When he opened his eyes, her gaze had shifted to his twitching hand.

  “I don’t—need your—pity!” he grated between cramping spasms.

  “Marcus, let me help you,” she pleaded.

  “I don’t—need your—help!” He thrust savagely, an animal in pain seeking solace. He spilled his seed inside her with a cry of rage and pain and shame.

  He heard her hiss as he withdrew himself and turned from her and readjusted his clothes. She scrambled away from him, nearly falling as her knees buckled when her feet landed on the floor. She pushed herself upright and ran for the door.

  He got there first and blocked her way.

  “Let me out!” she cried. “I cannot bear to be near you!”

  “You made a bargain, wife. The nights are mine.”

  She made a frustrated sound in her throat. She could not get past him. He was too strong. And she knew it.

  “You may take all you want from me as brutally as you wish, but I will give you nothing more of myself,” she snarled at him. “Animal! Monster!”

  He closed his eyes and turned his head away from her. God, what had he done to her? What had he done to both of them?

  He opened the door and stood aside. “Leave.” When she did not move, he shouted, “Get out!”

  When she stood where she was, he slammed the door and bolted it, locking her inside. With the beast.

  Eliza had made up her mind in an instant—of stupidity? of sympathy?—to stay with Marcus. She did not know why he had attacked her. She had not expected it. She was certain anger—and pain—must have driven him to it.

  She had no idea what had provoked the anger, but before the night was over, she intended to find out. She knew exactly what had caused the pain.

  Eliza crossed to the hob and checked the water in the kettle over the fire. It was more than warm shaving water now. It bubbled and boiled with a hiss. She headed for the tall chest where she knew Marcus kept his clothes and began to open drawers.

  He took a threatening step toward her. “Why are you ransacking my clothing?”

  “I am looking for handkerchiefs. Here they are,” she said breathlessly, pulling a handful out. She shot him a bold, sidelong glance. “It seems you will have a great deal to return to your brother when he shows up again. The children. The title. And handkerchiefs.” Kerchief after kerchief she unfolded was monogrammed with a B.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded.

  Eliza crossed back to the kettle and dropped all of them into the pot. “Go sit in that chair in the corner,” she ordered.

  He shrugged and said, “It is as good a place to sit and drink as any other. Find Griggs and tell him to bring me a bottle of brandy.”

  She had no intention of allowing Griggs to add drunkenness to the Beast’s other vices. But she was going to need the sergeant’s help. “Very well, Marcus.” She headed for the door.

  “Eliza,” he said, settling himself in the thronelike chair.

  She turned to look at him. “Yes, Marcus?”

  “Don’t come back,” he said in a soft voice.

  She looked into his face, realizing belatedly that she was not seeing the scars that ruined his beauty, only the expressions of agony and despair.

  “I will bring Griggs when I return,” she said.

  He closed his eyes and turned his head away. His right hand clenched the arm of the chair. His left hand twitched spasmodically.

  Eliza was nearly running by the time she reached Griggs’s bedroom and pounded on the door. When he did not answer, she shoved the door open and was startled to discover he was not there.

  She swallowed hard. Could she do this alone? Would Marcus hold still for her ministrations without Griggs to lend a hand? Should she bring Marcus the brandy, after all? She knew that was the way he had escaped the pain in the past.

  But Eliza had seen her mother ease the ache in her father’s feet with hot water. Surely the remedy would work just as well for a hand.

  She hurried back to Marcus’s bedroom, figuratively rolling up her sleeves. It was not going to be easy to convince him there was another way to allay his pain besides drinking himself into a stupor.

  “Where is Griggs?” he said the instant she closed and bolted the door behind her. “And where is my brandy?”

  “Griggs was not in his room, and—”

  Marcus pounded the arm of the chair with his right fist. “Damn and blast! I forgot I sent him up to take care of the children.”

  “What is wrong with the twins? Are they hurt?” she cried, hurrying to his side.

  He shot her an angry look. “Reggie took one look at my face and screamed her bloody head off. I would not be surprised if she woke the entire household.”

  Eliza stood stunned. She now knew the reason for his wrath. “She saw your face?”

  His lips twisted bitterly. “She woke up when I was putting Becky to bed. You deceived me completely, Eliza. I believed the faradiddle you told me in the moonlight. It seems the scars are not bearable. At least, not to a child,”

  “You cork-brained idiot! I told the truth! Waking up to find anyone—especially a long-haired, wildly bearded man—lurking in your bedroom in the middle of the night would be enough to frighten any child.”

  “I tell you my face—”

  “If you were right, I should be quailing at the very sight of you.” She walked right up and stood nose to nose with him. “Do I look the least bit frightened by your bloody face?”

  Marcus frowned, but whether at the blasphemy or her apparent lack of fear, she was not sure. Eliza watched as his lowering forehead squeezed the scars at the edge of his eye into a spray of white against the darker skin. There was nothing grotesque about it; the left side of his face was simply spider-webbed with very thin, very smooth white lines. She was itching to shave him, to see what his face looked like without the beard.

  That would have to wait.

  She left Marcus sitting where he was and crossed to the fire, using the iron poker to lift one of the handkerchiefs from the boiling pot. She let it drip on the stone floor as she made her way back to Marcus. She reached out to see if the cloth was cool enough for her to wring it out in her hands. She pulled it off, leaned the poker against the chair, and wrung out the handkerchief, letting the excess water splatter on the floor, where it ricocheted onto his boots.

  She was reminded of the first night she had met him, the first time he had kiss
ed her … at the well. So long ago. A lifetime ago. She looked up and saw Marcus’s eyes were focused on her. And that he was remembering, too.

  She swallowed over the ache in her throat. “This should not be too hot,” she said, passing the kerchief from hand to hand like a hot potato.

  He eyed her skeptically.

  “It has to be hot to relax the muscles.”

  He started to get up, and she put a flat hand against his chest. “I will use force if I must, to keep you where you are.”

  He lifted a brow. “You think you can?”

  She picked up the poker and brandished it. “A lump on the head would work, I believe.”

  His lips curled. “Very well, wife. Do your worst.” The humor disappeared from his face as a spasm racked his hand.

  While his eyes were closed and his teeth gritted against the pain, Eliza wrapped the hot handkerchief around his hand from palm to knuckles.

  “You’ll likely burn the thing to a crisp, and I can knock off the ashes and be done with it,” he said when he was able to open his eyes and study her handiwork.

  She was already at the kettle retrieving another kerchief. “I think I can leave this one a little hotter and put it over the other,” she said.

  Eliza watched the sweat pop out on Marcus’s forehead as she added the steaming kerchief to his spasming hand. Saw the bead of blood where he had bitten his lip through. Watched his right hand clench the arm of the chair and dig in until his fingernails left white crescents in the dark wood. His whole body strained to survive the torment.

  “I cannot do it, Eliza,” he gasped between spasms. “I need something to dull the pain. This is not working.”

  “It will,” she promised. “A little longer, Marcus.” She leaned over to kiss his wounded cheek above the beard.

  Their eyes met—his shocked, hers compassionate.

  “Why did you do that?” he asked, watching her face carefully.

  “It is a bribe,” she admitted with a smile. “Someone told me once you can get almost anything with a bribe. Is it working?”

  “It depends on what you want,” he said, his lips quirking.