The Man Behind the Scars(16)

And only contend with her husband-she still wasn't used to that word,  and wondered if she'd ever be, if it would ever simply be a term she  used instead of something more like a bomb-on the odd occasions they  crossed paths. Which, if she knew anything about busy men with great  amounts of wealth, a subject she had studied in some detail for some  time, as it happened, would be increasingly rare as time wore on. That  was how these marriages worked, no matter what claims Rafe might have  made about how unmodern he planned to be.

She folded her hands together in her lap, and only then remembered that  she now wore a ring on her formerly bare finger. Once she noticed it, it  was impossible to ignore the alien feeling of metal and stone on her  hand, digging into her flesh. For the first time, she looked down at her  hand and really took a close look at the ring he'd put there.

It was stunning. As was, she reflected, every single thing of his she'd  seen, from his suits to his car to his lovely town house. Of course the  ring was gorgeous. The man, clearly, had exquisite taste. He was far too  good for the likes of her, Angel knew, and the truth of that seemed to  twist inside of her in a new, unpleasant way. She concentrated on the  ring instead.

A large dark blue, square-cut sapphire rose above a bed of gleaming  diamonds and platinum. One ring of diamonds circled the blue stone,  while two other rings of diamonds sat on either side, though lower, each  circling another, bigger diamond. The dark blue center stone glittered  softly as Angel turned her hand this way and that, and something about  it seemed to echo deep inside of her, hitting hard at that same well of  sensation Rafe seemed to arouse in her so easily.

"It suits you," Rafe said, breaking into another surge of panic-surely  it was panic this time, and none of that far more dangerous desire-that  was rushing through Angel, making it hard to breathe. She was almost  grateful.                       
       
           



       

"It's beautiful," she whispered, unable to look at him. Too afraid of what he might see if she did.

"It was my grandmother's." There was something in his voice then, some  kind of emotion. She didn't know how to respond to it. She didn't know  why she wanted to, with an intense and sudden surge of that same  protectiveness as before. "I'm glad it will finally be worn again."

"Do you have your mother's ring as well?" Angel asked.

She didn't realize that was, possibly, an impertinent question-impolite,  at the very least, when she'd only meant to make a bit of  conversation-until his silence made her glance over at him. His face was  shadowed. Dark.

"Sorry-" she began, but he shook his head.

"My mother gave her wedding rings to my older brother," he said after a  moment, his voice entirely too calm. And distant. "They had a similar  aesthetic, while my sensibilities were always more closely aligned with  my grandmother's-my father's side of the family."

Angel had the sense he was choosing his words carefully. Then she focused on the most important word.

"Had?" she echoed hesitantly. She was conscious, suddenly, of that same  urge she'd felt in the registry office. She did not want to cause this  man pain. Even with an innocent question.

"They both died some time ago," Rafe said matter-of-factly, any emotion  she might have sensed gone as if it had never been, hidden away beneath  his scars. He shifted slightly in his seat, turning to better face her,  the stern set to his mouth discouraging any further comment. "Is it

really the time to discuss our pasts, Angel? We are already married. Perhaps it would be better to let them lie."

There was a kind of menace in the air then, simmering in the close  confines of the backseat. Or was it simply a kind of warning? Either  way, Angel ignored it.

"I insist that you tell me about your former lovers," she said  expansively. She felt that she had to dispel the strange tension that  seemed to hover between them, as dark as the day outside the car, or  sink into it without a trace. "All of them. I want to know everything,  so if we run into any of them at any point in time, I will have access  to all their salacious details while I am pretending to be polite."

"I am fascinated that you assume my former lovers are the sort of people  we will be running into at all," Rafe said in a dry voice. "I don't  know whether to be complimented or insulted."

"And yet you show no interest in mine?" Angel shook her head. "That is certainly no compliment."

That brow arched high. "My interest in your former lovers is directly  related to your medical records," he said. "Had they been anything less  than pristine, we would have had a very different discussion."

In a different marriage, Angel thought, eyeing him, she might have been  tempted to loathe him for that remark. But he was only being practical.  Depressingly, insultingly practical.

"I am most definitely insulted," she said. "And not about medical  records." She waved a hand in the air. "It's about the appropriate level  of flattering jealousy, Rafe. I do require a little bit of it. It's  only polite."

He gazed at her until her smile faded slightly. Then his hand moved,  slow yet sure, and he reached up to brush a thumb across the curve of  her jaw, the swell of her lips, sending a slow, sweet burn spiraling  through her.

"You work so hard to be provocative," he murmured, his eyes so dark, his  ruined face so intent. "What if I were to take the bait, Angel?"

She pulled in a ragged breath, finding it harder to gather herself than  it should have been, and still his hand traced patterns against her  skin, dousing her in his particular brand of fire.

"I would wonder why you were so easily provoked," she replied, her voice  as uneven as her breath. His dark gaze was consuming, connecting hard  and hot to something deep inside of her, making her feel as if she was  melting. She could feel him-as if they were already naked, as if he was  already inside of her, that powerful body moving over hers, driving her  right over the edge-

"I will assume, as any gentleman would, that you are entirely  untouched," he said. He dropped his hand back to his hard thigh. His  dark brow rose again, mocking her. "To be polite, of course."

"Gentlemen and their virgins," Angel said, as if the topic were one she  had discussed endlessly and been bored by years ago. "What vivid fantasy  lives you men have."

"It is less the fantasy life and more the fragile ego," Rafe replied,  amusement gleaming in his dark gaze. "I think you will find the history  of the world far easier to comprehend when viewed through the filter of  male insecurity."                       
       
           



       

"That is certainly true of my personal history," Angel said dryly.

"You are a virgin bride," he reminded her in that silky tone of his. "You have no personal history. Do try to keep up."

Her lips twitched, and Angel looked away from him, fighting the urge to  laugh in a decidedly indecorous, un-countess-like manner. She looked out  of the windows again instead, a certain warmth moving through her that  had nothing to do with desire. In its way, it was far more dangerous. It  promised too many things Angel knew she'd be better off banishing from  the lexicon of possibility in this marriage. It was better not to hope,  she told herself again, more fiercely this time. It was better to keep  her expectations as low as possible. She knew that.

It took a moment or two of watching the world slip by on the other side  of the rain-splattered window for Angel to make sense of what she was  seeing. She blinked. The congested city streets had given way to the  smooth expanse of the M4, headed in very much the opposite direction  from the Pembroke town house in its graceful, historic square in central  London.

"Why are we on the motorway?" she asked, bewildered.

Rafe only looked at her when she turned back to him, his expression  unreadable, his mouth again in that impossible line. A trickle of  something too much like foreboding, and far icier, began to work its way  down the nape of her neck. She fought off a shiver.

"The London town house is not my primary residence," he said, with no  particular inflection. His voice was still like silk, wrapping its spell  around her, tempting her to simply sink into it. But she couldn't  process what she was hearing. She couldn't take in what it must mean. "I  spend the majority of my time at Pembroke Manor. We're flying to  Scotland today."

"Pembroke Manor," Angel repeated dully as her mind raced.

Dimly, she remembered fiddling with her tea and trying to remain alert  while one of the solicitors had droned on about "the Scottish estate."  But had he said where it was located? Scotland was a rather large and  varied place, which she knew primarily from the telly and that one  ill-advised trip with her debaucherous friends to Aberdeen in her wild  youth, best left forgotten.