After the Kiss

by Joan Johnston

  “Another thirty minutes to see if this treatment will work. If it does not … I will bring you a bottle of brandy myself.”

  Marcus looked at the ormolu clock on the tall chest. “Thirty minutes,” he agreed.

  Eliza knelt at his side on the hard stone floor, her knees aching as she massaged his fingers.

  “That is only making it worse,” he said through tight jaws, pulling his hand away.

  “Let me try,” she said, holding out her hand until he laid his hand in her palm.

  He turned his face away, tightened his right hand on the chair, and shuddered as another spasm racked his clawlike hand.

  Eliza kept the handkerchiefs as hot as she—and he—could bear. She started at his little finger and worked her way to his thumb, curling the fingers forward and straightening them out. She massaged the joints. The space between his thumb and forefinger. The palm of his hand. His wrist. And back the other direction.

  It took twenty-two minutes.

  “I … I think the pain … the spasms have stopped,” Marcus said in wonder. He stared at his gnarled hand, which lay in her palm.

  Eliza looked up at him, a relieved smile on her face. “I am so glad, Marcus. Now that you know what to do, you can begin the treatment as soon as you suspect the muscles have begun to clench.” She curled his little finger almost all the way to his palm. “Do you see how flexible this finger is? I think they all might become so, if you worked with them.”

  He pulled his hand from hers. “I can do this for myself now. Thank you.”

  Eliza rose, keeping her gaze lowered, so he would not see how much his rejection hurt. “If you no longer need me,” she said, “I will go.”

  “Eliza,” he said, his voice raw. “Don’t leave.”

  She turned to face him, then opened her arms wide. “Here stands your whore, Marcus, whom you feel free to rape for your pleasure.”

  He winced.

  “I cannot live that life. I deserve much, much more. I will not stay tonight, nor will I come to this room again, unless you ask me here as your wife.”

  “What does that mean, Eliza?”

  “It means I want to be honored and respected. It means I want to share my life with you night and day. It means I want your love, Marcus, before I will give you mine.”

  “I admire you, Eliza.”

  She shook her head sadly. “It is not enough, Marcus.”

  “I need you.”

  “You need my body, Marcus. I want your soul to be the other half of mine, to fill an emptiness inside me. Until you want all of me, body and soul, you can have none at all.”

  “I do not think I am able to love you,” he said, the words torn from him.

  “Then I am sorry for both of us, Marcus. I will live my life the best I can without you—in the light. You may stay here in the darkness forever if you like. But you will be here by yourself.”

  Eliza unbolted the lock and left the room, closing the door with a silent snick behind her.

  Chapter 20

  “You must tell Marcus, Eliza. He deserves to know.”

  Eliza lifted her head from the chamber pot over which it had been bent for half the morning and wiped her mouth with a damp kerchief. “What purpose would that serve, Aunt Lavinia. Marcus has had six weeks to make up his mind whether to join me and the twins or stay where he is. Obviously, he has made his choice.”

  “Perhaps knowing that you carry his child might change his mind,” her aunt suggested, knitting needles clacking.

  Eliza crawled from behind the screen where the chamber pot was kept, across her bedroom carpet, to the chair next to the fire where her aunt sat knitting. “How long did you say this lasted for Mama?”

  “A few months only.”

  Eliza groaned. “I am not sure I will survive another month of this.” She settled her back against the chair, stretched her legs out in front of her toward the fire, and played with the peach-colored ribbon that hung down the front of her dress. “I want Marcus to come out of hiding because he loves me, not because I will bear him a child. Especially since producing an heir was one of the main reasons he gave for wanting to marry me.”

  “Piddletush!”

  Eliza turned and stared at her aunt. “What?”

  “The duke could have married any woman if he merely wanted an heir.”

  Eliza made a face. “Piddletush?”

  “Oh, that. Stumped you,” Aunt Lavinia said with a cackling laugh. “I made it up!”

  Eliza smiled. “All right. Piddletush. If the Duke of Blackthorne did not marry me for an heir, why did he marry me?”

  “If you have not figured that out by now, you are more mutton-headed than he is,” her aunt muttered, knitting needles clacking noisily.

  “He wanted someone to care for the children?” Eliza suggested.

  Her aunt scowled. “Why would a man who has remained a bachelor for thirty years marry to acquire a governess? He could have married any one of the previous six ladies if that had been his goal.”

  “He was desperate,” Eliza said. “He had no other choice by the time he got to me.”

  “He could have shipped the twins off to boarding school.”

  “Marcus would never do such a thing! He loves those children.”

  “Aha!” her aunt said. “Now we are getting somewhere.”

  Eliza’s forehead furrowed. “Are you saying Marcus married me because he loved me?” she asked incredulously.

  “Loves you,” Aunt Lavinia corrected.

  Eliza gnawed on her lower lip. “Marcus does not believe he can love me. He told me so himself.”

  “He may not wish to love you. But I promise you he is smitten.”

  “How do you know?” Eliza demanded, hoping her aunt was right, but afraid to believe she was.

  The knitting needles stopped clacking. “We are talking in circles,” Aunt Lavinia said. “The point is, what are you going to do about it? Mope around like a milk-and-water miss until your child is born without a father? Or do something to pry the duke out of that murky dungeon?”

  “There is nothing I am willing to do, other than what I have done,” Eliza said firmly. “I will not plead or beg or demand or cajole. He is the one who must make the first move.”

  “Stubborn mink,” her aunt grumbled.

  “Very stubborn minx,” Eliza replied with a grin.

  Aunt Lavinia harrumphed.

  Reggie and Becky lay on their bellies listening to Eliza’s conversation with her aunt. Fortunately, the grate was under the headboard, where Eliza would never think to look. Eavesdropping had become absolutely necessary over the past six weeks. It was the only way they could find out what was going on in the house.

  Ever since Reggie had woken up to find a bearded highwayman about to kidnap them out of their beds and screamed her head off—only to discover it was Uncle Marcus, of all people!—things had gone steadily downhill.

  “At least now we know why Eliza has been staying in her room every morning,” Becky said. “A baby,” she said dreamily. “Do you suppose she will let us hold it?”

  “She will be gone before it is born if we don’t do something to help get them back together,” Reggie said. “Have you any suggestions?”

  “ ‘Pry Uncle Marcus out of that murky dungeon,’ ” Becky suggested, in a perfect imitation of Aunt Lavinia’s voice.

  Reggie glanced at her admiringly. “Very good. Only, how are we going to do it?”

  “I know exactly how it can be accomplished,” Becky said. “But you may not like my plan.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because we might have to go hungry and thirsty for a little while.”

  “How long?” Becky asked, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

  “Not more than half a day, I would guess.”

  “I suppose that would be all right. If you are sure the sacrifice will draw Uncle Marcus out into the open.”

  Becky smiled. “Oh, yes,” she said airily. “It will turn the entire household upside-do
wn.”

  Marcus reached up to rub his hand across his smooth chin. He had been shaving himself every day for the past six weeks. He had gotten used to the feel of his face. He had even gotten used to the look of it.

  He had woken up the morning after Eliza had left him feeling that he must do something to make amends. But the only thing she wanted from him was the one thing he was most afraid to give her. His love.

  “You could shave off that beard of yours,” Griggs had said. “Her Grace asked me for a kettle to heat water, and made sure your shaving kit was where you could find it, and a towel and looking glass. She wanted to see your face. I must confess I miss your beauty myself.”

  Marcus had lifted a skeptical brow, but the instant Griggs left him alone, he began the task. He dipped his fingers in the kettle and discovered the water was still warm.

  A swell of feeling made his nose sting and his eyes water. He could not believe that after the harsh way he had used his wife, she had gone down on her knees on the hard stone floor to ease his pain. No more than he could understand why he had treated her in a way that was guaranteed to turn her against him.

  It had taken Marcus a great deal of thinking to realize he did not believe he deserved happiness, so he had done his best to destroy it.

  The hardest part of looking at himself in the glass was admitting that the person he had really been hiding from for the past year was himself. He was the one who believed himself a monster. He was the one who was shocked by his behavior. He had seen himself through his brother’s eyes, and through Eliza’s, and through Julian’s. Marcus was forced to admit that, while he might have had a perfect face and form, he had been a far from perfect man.

  Nothing he did now would bring back Julian. Or Alastair who—if he had been the mysterious laird of Blackthorne Hall—had disappeared once again into the mist. Or Eliza’s innocence.

  But he could try to live a more exemplary life. He could raise Alastair’s daughters as though they were his own. He could love his wife and treat her with the honor and respect she deserved.

  Marcus’s heart was racing when he finally soaped his face with his beaver shaving brush, picked up his straight-edged razor, and set to work.

  He shaved the uninjured part of his face first. It was surprising to see himself reflected in the looking glass. Blue eyes, arched brows, aquiline nose, mobile lips, strong chin. The Beau he knew emerged as the beard fell away.

  Then he focused on the other half of his face. And for the first time, faced the Beast.

  The scars did the most to distort his looks around his left eye, where a web of scars shot out in a white spray. His lip was puckered slightly on one side, but as Eliza had pointed out, it hindered neither his speech nor his ability to make love to his wife. A small nick in his chin, a slight indentation, showed where the saber had stopped. The rest of the scars had faded to fine, silvery lines that showed less without the beard than with it.

  His face laid bare, Marcus was forced to acknowledge who he was and what he was, and decide what he wanted to become.

  That was easier said than done.

  Over the past six weeks, he had often been tempted to send for Eliza, to make his apology to her, and admit how much he had always loved her. One thing had stopped him: the fear that she would not be able to forgive him. That she could never learn to love him again because of what he had done in the past. If he never begged forgiveness, he would not have to face the end of all his hopes and dreams.

  Of course, if he never begged forgiveness, his hopes and dreams had no chance at all. The longer Eliza kept her promise and stayed away, the more convinced he became that she no longer loved him and the more reluctant he became to bare his soul to her.

  Griggs entered the drawing room without knocking, interrupting Marcus’s musing and lending significance to his announcement, “You have a visitor, Your Grace. A lady.”

  Marcus leapt from his chair and stood with his back to the undraped windows, his heart racketing around in his chest. He was certain it must be Eliza. His future lay in his hands. He need only say the right things. He need only convince her that he would be a husband she could be proud of, a man she could love. A man who would love her as she deserved to be loved.

  The excitement he felt metamorphosed into disappointment when he saw who the “lady” was.

  “You will have to excuse me, Your Grace,” Lady Lavinia said as Griggs led her in on his arm. “I need a guide in unfamiliar surroundings.”

  “You are welcome anytime, Lady Lavinia.”

  “I have come on a matter of utmost urgency,” she said.

  “Is something wrong with Eliza or the twins?”

  “I am afraid there is a slight problem,” Aunt Lavinia said. “Though I am sure you will be able to correct it.”

  Marcus was beginning to think this was a feint by Eliza to draw him out. Some trumped-up disaster that he must avert. A way to save face for both of them. A smile curled his lips at her deviousness.

  “This is not a laughing matter, Your Grace.”

  Marcus frowned. How had a blind woman seen the expression on his face? “I never said it was,” he retorted.

  “I was afraid you would think this was some trick of Eliza’s to draw you out of hiding. I assure you it is not.”

  Marcus’s heart began to pump a little faster. “You said both Eliza and the children are involved. What exactly is the nature of the problem, Lady Lavinia?”

  “They all seem to have disappeared.”

  Becky stared at the growing pool of blood on the stones around Reggie’s head. Her first panicked thought was to run for help. But she was afraid if she did, Reggie might die before she could find her way back.

  Then she remembered they were locked in.

  It was very dark. The lantern made a circle of light several feet wide. Outside that glow lay all the horrors Becky had ever imagined in her worst nightmares. A stretching rack and old rusty spikes and lots of other things meant to torture people.

  Becky looked around her for something she could use to stanch the flow of blood, but everything was so dirty, so musty, so full of … of spiderwebs. She pulled off her bow—a pink one that matched her pink shift, and squatted down beside Reggie, who was dressed in yellow.

  When she lifted Reggie’s head to locate the oozing bump, her hands got covered with something slippery she soon realized was Reggie’s blood. She let go of Reggie’s head and scrubbed her hands on her shift to get it off, then looked down and gagged at the sight of herself, covered with blood.

  She glanced at Reggie and realized she had to do something to stop the bleeding. She could not wait. Becky sniffed back her tears and did her best to bind the wound tightly with the wide pink ribbon.

  “Reggie,” she said, shaking her sister’s shoulder. “Wake up.”

  Reggie’s eyes remained closed.

  Becky ran to the thick wooden door and banged on it, shouting for help.

  No one answered. They were completely lost, locked in a dungeon without food or water, somewhere in the bowels of Blackthorne Abbey.

  It was the skeleton in one of the torture devices that had caused all the problems. They had bent down to look more closely at the skull, when a spider crawled out of the eyehole. Becky had panicked. She had taken off with the lantern, leaving Reggie in the dark. Reggie had shouted for her to come back, but Becky had only wanted to get out, to get away.

  That was when Becky had realized they were locked in. That the wooden door had somehow closed after they had passed through it and was locked tight.

  “Reggie, we cannot get out!” she yelled. “Reggie, where are you!”

  Reggie had appeared at her side, angry for being left in the dark. “Don’t do that again,” she chided.

  “Now you see how Eliza felt,” Becky had not been able to resist saying.

  Reggie had found some wooden boxes to stack so she could reach the barred window near the top of the door. It had not been a sturdy sort of ladder, and Becky warned Reg
gie to be careful.

  “I am being careful!” she snapped. “Hand me the lantern, so I can see.”

  Becky held up the lantern, but when Reggie reached for it, she lost her balance and went tumbling over backward. She had shrieked once before her head hit the stones.

  She had not woken up since.

  If only they had told Eliza what they were doing before they entered the secret passageway, Becky thought. If only someone knew they were down here in the dungeon, they might have a chance of being found. A slim chance, because so far she had not found any grates through which she could yell for help.

  Her plan had been a good one: She and Reggie would disappear into the secret passageway. When Eliza could not find them in the house or the barn, she would go to Uncle Marcus for help. He would come out of hiding, they would reappear, he and Eliza would make up, and everybody would live happily ever after.

  Things had simply gone awry. It had been hours and hours since they had walked into the honeycombed passage. They had taken a wrong turn, and it had led them down here. Even if Eliza remembered the secret passageway, she was too scared of the dark to go in it by herself. Would she break her promise and tell Uncle Marcus about it? Even if she did, it could be hours before they were found. Maybe days. Maybe weeks.

  Becky remembered the skeleton.

  Maybe they would not be found at all.

  When the twins did not show up for morning tea, Eliza excused herself and went looking for them. She knew they had been disappointed when word came several weeks ago that the new laird of Blackthorne Hall had disappeared as mysteriously as he had arrived. If the laird had been their father, which was by no means certain, he was missing again.

  Eliza had watched the twins walk to the end of the lane each day expecting Alastair’s return. Eventually they had given up. Eliza had no idea what had occupied their time lately, because she had been under the hatches. No wonder they felt neglected. No wonder they had not come in for tea. Who would care? Who would notice they were gone?

  Eliza searched the better part of the day without finding them. She was beginning to be seriously concerned and wondered whether she should send a message to Marcus—through Griggs—that the children were missing.