His inscrutable gaze rested on her for a moment. ‘Very well.’ He handed her the pot. ‘Let us see.’
She blinked. ‘I beg your pardon?’
He perched himself on the edge of the desk.
‘Apply your magic potion, and we will see how well it works.’
‘Apply it here? Now?’ Zelah swallowed. ‘I am not sure...’
‘Damnation, Delilah, I let you be my barber, surely you do not balk at touching my face—or is the scar too abhorrent?’
‘Not at all, sir.’
She opened the jar and scooped a little of the ointment on to her fingers. She remembered how she had felt when she had cut his hair, standing so close, aware of his latent strength. She felt again as if he was some wild beast allowing her to come near, but at any minute he might turn and savage her. After a very slight hesitation she applied the cream gently to his cheek.
She smoothed it across the skin, working between the hard ridges of his cheekbone and his jaw.
‘There, does that feel better?’ He grunted and she chuckled. ‘Pray do not be ashamed to admit it. A mixture such as this soothes the damaged skin and makes it flexible again, in the same way that wax will soften leather.’
‘Are you comparing my face to a boot, madam?’
Zelah laughed as she massaged the ointment into his cheek. ‘I would not dare be so impertinent!’
She felt him smile beneath her fingers.
‘Oh, I think you would.’
She did not reply, but continued to work her fingers over his skin until all signs of the cream had disappeared.
‘The sabre did not only cut my face. It slashed open my body, too.’
Zelah stopped. She said gently, ‘May I look?’
He untied his neckcloth and tugged it off, leaving his shirt open at the neck. Zelah pushed aside the material to expose his left shoulder. The skin was golden brown, tanned, she guessed, from working shirtless on the land. It was marred by a wide, uneven white line across his collarbone and cutting down his chest, where it carved a path through the covering of crisp black hair. Her heart lurched at the thought of the pain he must have endured. She forced back a cry of sympathy, knowing it would not be welcome. Instead she tried to be matter-of-fact, scooping up more cream and spreading it gently across the ragged furrow of the wound.
‘It is a pity you did not rub something in this sooner,’ she said, absorbed in her task, ‘but it is not too late. If you apply this regularly, it will soften the skin and help the scarred tissue to stretch.’
She worked the ointment into his skin, moving over the collarbone and down to his breast. A smattering of black hair curled around her fingers as she stroked the finely toned muscle.
Zelah could not say exactly when the change in the atmosphere occurred, but suddenly the air around her was charged with tension and she realised just what a perilous situation she was in. Not merely the impropriety of being alone with a man who was not her husband, but the dangerous sensations within her own body. She concentrated on the skin that she was covering with ointment, forcing herself to think of that small area of scarring and not the whole body. Not the man. It was impossible. She should stop, move away, but she could not. Of their own accord her fingers followed the scar across the solid breastbone and on, down.
Dominic’s hand clamped over hers.
‘That will do.’ His voice was unsteady. ‘Perhaps I should finish this myself. Later.’
Zelah blushed, consumed from head to toe with fiery embarrassment.
‘I...um...’ She had to take a couple of breaths before she could continue. ‘It is best applied every day, and directly after bathing.’
She tried to look up, but could only lift her eyes as far as his mouth. The faint, upward curve of his lips was some comfort.
He released her hand. ‘You are far too innocent to be Delilah, aren’t you?’
She dare not meet his eyes. Her cheeks were still burning. She put the lid back on the jar and handed it to him.
‘It was never my wish to be such a woman.’
‘No, of course not. You are far too bookish.’ He pushed himself off the desk and picked up his neckcloth. ‘I must go. I want to see Phillips today about restocking the coverts.’
Zelah glanced towards the window as another shower of rain pattered against the glass.
‘Should you not wait until the storm passes?’
‘Why? It will not harm me. In fact, I think I would welcome a cold shower of rain!’
With a brief nod he strode out of the room and as his hasty footsteps disappeared so the calm and silence settled over the library again.
Zelah sat down at the desk and dropped her head on to her hands. So she was ‘too bookish’ to be Delilah, the beautiful temptress. She should be pleased that Dominic did not think of her in those terms, and she was pleased, wasn’t she?
With a sinking heart Zelah realised that she was just a little disappointed.
Zelah’s working days had developed a regular pattern. Major Coale would visit the library every morning to discuss the day’s tasks. Whenever he was obliged to be out early he would leave her instructions and call in to see her as soon as he had returned to Rooks Tower. Their meetings were brief and businesslike, but Zelah looked forward to them and when, two weeks later, the major left word that he was gone to Exeter and would not be back until the following day, she was surprised at the depth of her dissatisfaction.
The following day saw the delivery of the books from Lydcombe Park. She was reluctant to spoil the space and tidiness of the library and ordered some of the crates to be taken up to the tower room. Unpacking all the new books and arranging for the empty crates to be taken away kept Zelah occupied for most of the day. She was buttoning her pelisse when she heard a familiar step approaching the library and she turned towards the door, her spirits rising. Major Coale came in, his boots still muddy from the journey, and she was unable to keep the smile of welcome from her face.
His first words were not encouraging. ‘What, Miss Pentewan, going already? I heard that the books from Lydcombe Park had been delivered. Surely that is a case for working longer.’
‘And so I would, sir, but I am walking to Lesserton today, to collect Nicky from his lessons.’
‘Then I shall take you there in the curricle.’
‘But you have just this minute come in...’
‘From riding, madam, a very different exercise. You may show me just what you have done with the books while we wait for my carriage.’
Unable to muster her arguments, Zelah consented and ten minutes later she was sitting beside the major in his sleek, low-slung racing curricle and marvelling at the smooth new road he had built. They had to slow their pace when they joined the Lesserton road, but they still made good time and soon reached the village. They were heading for the main street and, seeing how busy it was, Zelah glanced at the major. He was wearing a wide-brimmed hat, tilted to shadow the left side of his face, so that his scarred cheek and chin were barely visible. She was pleased to note that the majority of the men touched their caps and the women dropped a curtsy as they bowled past. Some children and one or two of the adults stopped to stare, but she decided this was due to the unusual sight of a fashionable carriage with a diminutive groom perched upon the rumble seat.
‘Where shall I drop you?’ enquired the major.
‘Here, if you please. I am still a little early, so I shall indulge myself by looking in the shops on Market Street before I collect Nicky. You have no need to hand me out, I can easily jump down.’ She suited the action to the words as the curricle drew to a stop and gave a friendly little wave as Major Coale set his team in motion again.
The morning clouds had given way to a warm, sunny afternoon and when Nicky came running out from the vicar’s rambling house she persuaded him to take a detour before they made their way home. They were just setting off when Nicky gave a delighted cry.