Beneath the Major's Scars(28)

‘Please,’ she begged him. ‘Please let me apologise.’

He glared at her, eyes blazing, his chest rising and falling as     he fought to contain his rage. She held her ground and after a moment he turned     and walked away. Silently she followed him into the room and shut the door.

‘I did not understand, until I saw the mirrors.’ He was     standing with his back to her, staring down into the empty fireplace. She said     quietly, ‘Forgive me, Major. I did not mean to make you angry.’

‘So now you will go back and close the room up again.’

‘Must I?’

‘Yes! I do not wish to be reminded of the monster I have     become.’

‘You are not a monster!’ Angrily     she caught his arm and turned him towards her. ‘You are a man, a soldier with a     scarred face. Is that so very bad? You went to the assembly—’

‘That was an aberration, a moment of madness.’

‘Perhaps it was so, for you, but you were not shunned. One or     two were shocked, of course, people who had not seen you before, but the     majority—those who know and respect you—they accept you for what you are.’

‘What I am is a freak.’

‘Now you are just being foolish! There are many men with worse     disfigurements than this, many whose wits are addled.’

‘And there are many who lost their lives!’ he flashed. ‘Do you     think I am not aware of that? Do you think I do not know? Every time I see this scarred face it is a reminder of all     those men that died, good men, with more right to live than I will ever have—’     He broke off and swung away towards the window. ‘From the moment we crossed into     Spain I was writing letters of condolence. To wives, fathers, mothers, as more     and more comrades perished. And still they died, those poor souls, never to see     their homeland again. You have no idea of what it’s like to wake up at night     asking, why me? Why should I live when all around me     perished—Graddon was a fool to bring me back. And the others who helped him.     They should have left me to die like the rest at Cacabelos—’

‘No!’ Zelah grabbed his arm and pulled him round again. ‘How     dare you say such a thing. Any life lost is a tragedy, yes, but a life saved—it shows the love and respect in which you were     held that so many put themselves out to bring you home! So your scars remind you     of your fallen comrades. Is that so very bad? You are not the only one to have     bitter regrets about the past. Perhaps instead of wallowing in your self-pity     every time you look in a mirror you should feel proud to have fought beside     those men.’ She stepped closer and put up her hand to touch his face. ‘These     marks are not so very bad—’

He grabbed her wrist and whipped her hand behind her back. They     were so close that her breast brushed his waistcoat. Immediately her body     tensed. She could see every detail of the long black lashes that fringed his     eyes, the fine lines etched into his skin. She dropped her eyes to his mouth,     the curve of his lips, the slight droop on the left where the scar ran close. In     her mind she put her arms about his neck and gently touched her lips to the     livid scar, kissing his brow, his cheek, his mouth, making him forget his     injuries and remember that he was a man, like any other.

‘You go too far, madam.’ His voice was rough, not quite     steady.

Not far enough. The words were on     the tip of her tongue. She felt her body softening, yielding to the magnetic     power of the man. She felt naked under his scorching glance. It had been so long     since any man had held her thus, but the desire for that first youthful love had     not been as strong as this, as unconfined. She had never wanted a man as she     wanted Dominic. His eyes wandered to her mouth and nervously she ran her tongue     over her lips. Surely he would kiss her now, or she would die.

He released her so suddenly that Zelah swayed.

Dominic turned away from her, rubbing his eyes. This would not     do. Only by an extraordinary effort of will had he resisted the temptation to     kiss her. She was willing enough, he knew that look; the darkening lustre of the     eyes, the soft flushing of the lips. He could have taken her, made love to her     there and then in this very room, but what then? To have her working in his     library was giving rise to scandalous rumour, but while it remained only that,     she could still become a governess and maintain her independence. If he took her     as his mistress it would outrage the neighbourhood and ruin her reputation for     ever. When they grew tired of each other what would there be for her, save     another man, another protector, until her looks had quite gone.

‘I b-beg your pardon,’ she said quietly. ‘I...perhaps I should     leave. You could find another archivist.’

He swung round. She was very pale, but outwardly composed.

‘Is that what you want?’ She shook her head and Dominic     realised he had been holding his breath for her reply. He nodded. ‘Very well. We     shall say no more of this. Go back to work, now, Miss Pentewan.’

She clasped her hands in front of her, twisting her fingers     together and running the tip of her tongue over her lips. Dear God, if she     continued to do that it would be his ruin! He said roughly, ‘Well, madam?’

‘The salon. May I...will you allow the shutters to remain     open?’

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

‘You are nothing if not persistent, madam. If it is your     wish.’

‘Thank you. You might of course remove the pier glasses.’

‘No, let them stay. The room is designed for them.’

He was surprised by his response and took a moment to consider     how he felt. Exhausted, drained, but somehow calmer than he had felt for years.     Somehow his outburst had been a catharsis. He had spoken to no one of his guilt     and it had built inside him, reaching such proportions that it had distorted     everything, even, he suspected, his view of his own disfigurement. When he     looked up Zelah was still standing before him, uncertainty in her hazel     eyes.

‘Will—will it prevent you coming to the library?’

He thought about it. ‘I do not know. Shall we put it to the     test?’

He walked to the door and stood there, looking at her. After a     brief hesitation she accompanied him back across the hall. The doors to the     salon still stood wide. Beyond, the room glowed with the afternoon sunlight. It     glinted off the gilded plasterwork, twinkled from the mirrors. His step slowed     at the threshold and he held out his arm.

‘Will you do me the honour?’

She placed her fingers on his sleeve and they processed slowly     through the salon.

‘I had no idea you had returned from Exeter, Major.’

‘Evidently, or you would not have turned my house upside down.’     She shook her head, refusing to respond to his teasing. He continued. ‘I have     ordered a carpet for the library. It will mirror the pattern on the ceiling, I     hope you will approve.’

She looked up quickly, surprise and pleasure in her eyes.

‘I am sure it will add the finishing touch.’

They had gone more than halfway across the long room before     Dominic realised that he had held out his left arm to her, so that when he     looked to the left his eyes were drawn to her reflection rather than his own.     And there was something else. The man in the mirror was walking with a sure,     steady gait. He was no longer dragging his right leg.



Dominic stretched and rubbed his eyes. He had slept well     again, untroubled by dreams or nightmares. That was three nights in a row. He     put his hands behind his head, thinking about the change in him. It was due to     Zelah. She had accused him of wallowing in self-pity. He could not deny it. She     had coaxed and bullied and nagged him until finally he had erupted, his pain,     anger and guilt spilling out and the relief, to finally confess it all to     someone, had been overwhelming. That was three days ago and now he felt purged,     ready to rebuild his life, to face the world.

And it was all due to his little librarian.

Graddon brought his shaving water and Dominic considered how     best he could reward her. Money? The razor rasped over his cheek. No. He knew     her well enough now to know her proud independent spirit would never accept such     a gift, or any gift. Damnation, then how was he to thank her? One thing was     certain, he would not let her become a governess. She deserved to be her own     mistress, with her own servants to command. But how was he to engineer such a     change in her life? It must not look as if he had any hand in the affair. He     could set up an annuity and have his lawyer tell her it was from some long-lost     relative, but that would mean taking her family into his confidence, and if her     father was the upright clergyman she had described then he might not be happy to     collude in such a lie. Besides, there was not much time. The work in the library     was almost complete. Every day he dreaded that Zelah might come to him and say     she had accepted another post. And once she had left her sister’s house—