Unmask Me If You Can

by Shana Galen

  She finished and moved to the hearth to stoke the fire, presumably to heat water for the tea.

  “Miss Carlisle.” Jasper had control of his voice again now that she was no longer touching him. “About last night.”

  She stiffened and did not turn to face him. “I won’t go back to London, my lord.”

  “I understand. That wasn’t what I wanted to apologize for.”

  She looked at him, her expression curious.

  “I want to apologize for what happened in your bed.”

  “Nothing happened, my lord.”

  “I fell on you, and I want to assure you it was inadvertent. I wasn’t attempting to take advantage of the situation.”

  “I never thought you were.”

  He should have allowed that to pass. He didn’t. “I saw your face, Miss Carlisle. You were terrified.”

  “I think that’s something of an exaggeration.” She waved a hand and went back to her chore at the hearth.

  “No, it’s not.” If she hadn’t been afraid of him, he would have gone to her and touched her shoulder to reassure her. But touching her would not help matters. She didn’t want to be touched, not by any man and especially not by him. “And I just wanted to assure you I had no ulterior motives. I simply tripped and you were below me when I fell.” At least he thought that was what happened. “If I had not been so weak and exhausted, I would have helped you up, not crushed you.”

  “You didn’t crush me.”

  “Nevertheless, I apologize. And I want to make a suggestion.”

  “What is that?”

  “Once I am back to full strength—tomorrow or the next day—if the trail is still impassable, then I think I should sleep in the stable with the horse.”

  Her head snapped up. “What? Why?”

  “Because I can see my presence here makes you uneasy. This is your home, and if I sleep in the stable, you can lock me out and feel safe again.”

  “You cannot be serious. I will not lock you out.”

  “Mama!” Richard’s high thin voice floated down from the loft. “Can I sleep in the stable with Lord Jasper? I want to sleep outside.”

  She tossed Jasper a look that said I-blame-you-for-this. “No one but Clover will sleep in the stable, darling.”

  “But, Mama!”

  “Come down and use the privy then I’ll make everyone a meal to break our fast.”

  “But Mama!” The boy appeared at the top of the ladder, his lip stuck out in a pout. “I want to sleep in the stable.”

  “Your mother said no,” Jasper answered gently. “To both of us. I guess we have to sleep inside like civilized men.”

  The boy cocked his head to the side. “What’s a civilized man?”

  Something Jasper hadn’t been in a long time, and the past few days of pretending, of watching his speech and his manners, were beginning to wear on him.

  Seven

  The trail was still impassable and remained so for the next two days. Olivia was relieved as it meant there was no need to bring up the question of her going to London again. There were so many reasons she wouldn’t go and shuddered to even think of it. She’d been attacked and violated and terrified in London and the man who had done it was still there, still looking for her. And even if Withernsea was no more, how could she look her parents in the face after what had been done to her?

  What her parents had let happen to her.

  She felt both angry at them for leaving her vulnerable to a man like Withernsea and ashamed at what he’d done to her. She couldn’t stand the disappointment she knew she would see on her parents’ faces when they met Richard and when they realized she’d been living like a peasant for the last five years.

  And she was definitely feeling like a peasant today. She’d read books on gardening and that knowledge was proving useful. She’d finally drained the garden of the rain water and she’d been kneeling in the mud trying to trellis beans and dig holes for potatoes. She was covered with dirt and mud, her shoulders ached, and her knees were beginning to protest. She could hear Richard and Lord Jasper playing. Well, she could hear Richard. She assumed his shrieks and hoots of laughter were in response to something Lord Jasper had done.

  She’d refused his offer of help again today, telling him to rest, but she didn’t think she would be able to refuse him much longer. He was growing stronger. His fever had completely passed, and he didn’t seem to need to nap any longer. He ate more and barely winced when he had to move his injured side.

  This would probably be his last night in her bed. Then he would take the chair, or the floor, and she would take the bed. She didn’t like the idea of lying down while he sat in a chair. It made her feel vulnerable, but what choice did she have? If she admitted her feelings, he’d insist on sleeping in the stable. She couldn’t allow that. The man was the son of a marquess. How could she make him sleep in a stable? Not to mention, if he slept in the stable, Richard would want to, and she wanted Richard where she could see him and be certain he was safe.

  She went back to work, ignoring her protesting muscles, and must have worked for another few hours because when she looked up again, both Richard and Lord Jasper were standing on the side of the garden. Richard had a mischievous grin on his face.

  “What did you do?” she asked, immediately suspicious.

  “Nothing,” Richard said. Then, seeming unable to hold in his excitement any longer, Richard danced to her and grabbed her hand. “Come and see!”

  She allowed him to tug her out of the garden. “I’m coming to see what you did not do?”

  “You won’t be disappointed,” Lord Jasper said. No, she imagined he did not disappoint often. She shook her head to clear it of the thought.

  Richard towed her into the cottage, where he pointed to the table, which had been set for supper. Rich, savory smells wafted over her, making her stomach growl. She was suddenly ravenous, and no wonder as she realized she hadn’t eaten in hours. And that meant neither had Richard. What kind of mother forgot to feed her own child?

  She looked at Richard and then Lord Jasper. “I lost track of time. You must be famished.”

  “We won’t be once you sit down, Mama. Lord Jasper and I made soup and bread.”

  “We didn’t make the bread. We merely sliced a loaf you had put aside,” Lord Jasper amended.

  “Time to eat, Mama!” Richard ran to the table and indicated where she should sit. The napkin by the plate had a flower on top. Olivia smiled at the pretty gesture. It had been years since anyone had given her flowers.

  “Let me wash my hands and face first,” she said. “I’ll hurry.” She went back outside and used the bucket of fresh water beside the door to wet a cloth and rub her face. She was dismayed when the cloth came back streaked with dirt. She must look a fright. She dipped the cloth into the water again, and a shadow fell over her. Olivia stepped back so quickly she almost knocked the bucket over.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you,” Lord Jasper said.

  “You didn’t,” she lied, retrieving the cloth and cleaning her arms. But now that she knew it was him, her heart hammered for another reason.

  “I hope you don’t mind that we prepared the meal. I’m no cook, but I’ve made my share of meals around a campfire. It seemed the least I could do, since you banned me from the garden.”

  “Because I wanted you to rest,” she said, more sharply than she’d intended. She closed her eyes and blew out a breath. She had to calm her racing pulse. “What I mean to say is thank you. It’s no small task to occupy a five-year-old all day and prepare a meal. I’m in your debt.”

  “Not at all. I am in yours.” With a bow that seemed too formal for the situation, he returned inside. Olivia wondered if he knew just how close she’d come to leaving him for dead on that trail. If she had, he would most certainly be dead now. Of course, if he really considered himself in her debt, he’d leave her be. He’d go back to London and tell everyone she’d fled the country or was dead. That last option would devastate
her parents, but at least she and Richard would be safe.

  The meal was delicious, partly because she was so hungry and partly because she had not had to prepare it. It had been years since she had not prepared a meal. The vegetable soup and bread were simple but hearty and after she’d finished and insisted on washing the dishes so Lord Jasper would finally rest, she was ready for sleep. But she still had to cajole Richard into bed. She dried her hands on her apron with just that intention. Except when she turned back to the room, Richard was in Lord Jasper’s arms, fast asleep.

  “What are you doing?” she hissed.

  “He would have fallen off the bench if I hadn’t caught him. I thought I’d carry him to bed.”

  “Up the ladder?”

  “You know another way to get him there?”

  “But your wound—”

  He rolled his eyes. “He doesn’t even weigh as much as a sack of potatoes.” And without waiting for her agreement, he carried the boy up the ladder, making the task she sometimes found difficult empty-handed look easy. She followed him up, removed Richard’s boots then tucked him into bed in his clothes. She’d rather leave them on than risk waking him.

  When she blew out the lamp, Lord Jasper gestured for her to descend the ladder first. She did so, and he followed her down. For whatever reason, she was now awake again. “Do you want a cup of tea?”

  He shook his head, a movement which drew her attention to a faint trickle of blood on his cheek. “What happened to your cheek?” she asked, moving closer.

  He stepped back, lifting a hand to touch it.

  “The other side,” she corrected.

  He brought his finger away bloody then shrugged. “It’s nothing.”

  Olivia stared at him. “It’s not nothing. I finished your shirt and planned to give it to you tonight, but I won’t let you try it on if you’ll only bleed all over it.”

  “It’s not from my wound.”

  “I can see that as your wound is much lower. Why is your face bleeding?”

  His hazel eyes were almost gold in the firelight. “I told you it’s nothing.”

  “And I told you that is nonsense. Will you tell me or must I see for myself?”

  His voice turned hard. “I won’t remove my mask.”

  She stared at him, working out what he’d said and the position of the trickle of blood. It must have come from under his mask. Was it possible he had an injury there she hadn’t been aware of? “You are bleeding under your mask. Something is wrong, and I’d better look before it becomes infected.”

  “It’s not that serious.”

  “My lord, forgive me for arguing, but you are bleeding.”

  “I’m not injured. The material from the mask irritates my skin. I don’t usually wear it for such long periods of time.”

  She hadn’t thought of that. Of course, such a fitted garment would irritate if not removed and if the skin below was not allowed to breathe.

  “Then you had best take it off.”

  “No.”

  She’d been prepared for his refusal. “Do you think whatever is under there will shock me? I’ve given birth by myself”—her face reddened at having mentioned something so personal—“and tended your knife wound. I hardly think a scar will send me screaming in fear.”

  “It’s more than a scar.”

  “Take it off.”

  “No.”

  “Then you force me outside. If you won’t remove it in front of me, I’ll leave. I won’t be the reason you’re in pain. Sleep without it tonight.”

  “Now you are offering to sleep in the stable?”

  “Would you trust me not to look if I slept in the loft?”

  He sighed. Deeply. “No.”

  “Then I have no other option.” She removed her apron and began to gather her coat and a blanket to lay on the hay across from Clover. She would come back early and knock, so she would not surprise him.

  “Wait,” he said. “I’ll go out.”

  She shook her head. “You’ll need to treat your skin with a cool cloth.” She pointed to a shelf. “You’ll find clean cloths there as well as some ointment that might help. There’s nothing like that in the stable. I am the one who will have to go.” She clutched her blanket closer, looking down to make sure she had all she would need for the night, then lifted the latch on the door.

  His hand came around her and pushed the door closed again. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  SHE TURNED SLOWLY AND looked up at him. His hand was level with her head, and her shoulder brushed his arm when she turned. “Don’t say I didn’t tell you it will make no difference to me what’s under that mask.”

  Jasper gave her a rueful smile. He’d heard that enough times that he didn’t believe it any longer. He knew no one could look at his ruined face and not feel revulsion. He felt it himself every time he looked in the mirror.

  “Do you want me to ready the cloths and ointment?” Miss Carlisle asked.

  Jasper nodded. She went to her task and he reached up to loosen the ties on the mask. Then he lowered his hands. If she was to see him, naked for all intents and purposes, he wanted something in return. “What’s your name?” he asked.

  She turned back to him. “What do you mean?”

  “Only a handful of people have ever seen me without my mask. If you’re to join that group, I’d at least like to know your Christian name.”

  She gave him a considering look then nodded as though she understood the significance of what he was asking, what he was giving. “You may call me Olivia,” she said before going back to gathering cloths and ointment. Jasper was momentarily taken aback. He’d expected her to tell him her name. He hadn’t expected to be given permission to use it. That was more intimacy than he thought she’d grant him. Perhaps she really did understand the implication of him removing his mask.

  He reached for the ties again, and loosened the top half of the mask, that part that covered his forehead and hair. It disguised some of the damage the fire had done, but not nearly as much as the mask covering his eyes, temple, and upper cheek. Jasper loosened that as well and, wincing from the pain, he peeled the mask from his tender skin. Immediately, his skin burned from exposure to the air, but it was freeing to be rid of the material.

  Jasper raised a hand, and it came away slightly pink. His scars hadn’t bled too badly. Maybe this respite and some of the ointment would help the constant irritation. Miss Carlisle—Olivia, he reminded himself—turned around and started toward him without looking at his face. He watched her walk, keenly aware that she would look up at him and then her steps would falter. But their eyes met, and she didn’t hesitate. The expression on her face was not one of revulsion but of concern.

  “I was worried about the knife wound, but all this time it’s been your face that pains you.” She reached for his face, and he jerked back. No one but the surgeon had ever touched his scars. “I’m sorry,” she said, lowering her hands. “I should have asked first.”

  “I’d rather tend it myself.”

  She held out the linen and ointment, her gaze never wavering from his face. It was as though she really did not find his scars grotesque. The only people who had ever looked at him as though he were not disfigured were the other survivors of Draven’s troop. They’d been with him when it happened and had their own scars—visible or not.

  “I don’t have a looking glass,” she said. “It might be easier if you allow me. I can see where the worst of the chafing is.”

  He took a deep breath. She wanted to touch his face, his scars. It was a liberty he’d never allowed. But he also realized that her reasons made sense. It would be easier if he allowed her to apply the ointment.

  And, to his shock, a part of him wanted her to touch him so intimately.

  “I promise to be gentle.”

  He shook his head. “That’s not it. No one but the surgeon has ever touched me...there.”

  She pressed her lips together. “I understand. I’m here if you need assistanc
e.” And she stepped away, pretending to busy herself with the items to be mended in her sewing basket. But before she could sit down and begin her work in earnest, he cleared his throat.

  “I’d like you to do it.” He felt his cheeks flush and felt like a boy of seventeen again, attending his first ball and asking a girl if she might like to dance.

  Her busy hands stilled, the only sign his words had surprised her. “Of course. If you’ll sit here, that will make it easier for me to reach you.” She gestured to the end of the bench closest to the fire.

  He did as she asked, setting the supplies on the table beside him. She stood before him and lifted a linen strip then dipped it in a bowl of clean water. She wrung it out then placed it carefully over his ruined skin. The cool of the water felt so good, he couldn’t help but blow out a breath of relief. After a moment, she removed the cloth and he saw it had tinges of pink blood on it. She repeated the gesture several more times until the cloth came away clean. Then she lifted the ointment and paused to study his face.

  Jasper knew she was deciding where to apply it, but he could hardly hold still while she stared at him, seeing all of his flaws laid bare. He felt his neck redden further and then his cheeks flash hot as he imagined what she must be thinking. How he must disgust her.

  He was about to lower his face when she slid fingers slicked with ointment across his wound. At first he felt nothing, but then, as it absorbed the medicine, his skin didn’t feel as raw or as tight. She took hold of his chin with her other hand and applied more ointment where she thought it was necessary. When she was done, she set the pot of ointment on the table and washed her hands.

  “It’s probably best if you don’t wear your mask for a few hours. I can put linen on the pillow so it isn’t stained by the ointment.”

  “There’s no danger of that as you’ll sleep in the bed tonight.”

  She opened her mouth, but he held up a hand, indicating he wouldn’t argue.

  “Very well. Then before I retire, should I wash your mask? It will be dry by the morning if we hang it by the fire.”