"Why?" She looked puzzled. "It's not your fault."
When she took a sip of wine, he nodded to her hand. "I noticed a mark on your thumb. Is it another battle scar?" Part of him did not wish to hear another tale of the cruelty she'd suffered. Part of him wanted to know every intricate detail about her.
Placing her mug back on the table, she held her hand to the candlelight. "Two gentlemen were arguing over Maudette. Sometimes men imagine the girls are in love with them. One of them threw a vase at me when I asked him to leave. I covered my head with my hands but it hit the wall next to me, and a piece grazed my thumb."
"What was his name?" His voice sounded harsh, unyielding. "The man who threw the vase."
"Why?" she laughed. "Will you sail all the way to England in a bid to avenge me?"
"No. I'll get someone else to do it on my behalf."
She stared into his eyes. "You're serious."
"I am."
Her gaze softened, and she swallowed visibly.
"I have a similar scar." He turned his hand over and showed her the mark on the pad of his palm just below his thumb. "From a woman who'd convinced herself she loved me. She charged at me with a broken perfume bottle."
She took his hand in hers and examined it beneath the flame. "You were lucky. An inch lower and it would have pierced a vein."
"An inch lower and a woman would have succeeded where many men have failed."
"Love is a dangerous business, is it not?" She gave a weak smile. "I must say I find these coincidences a little unsettling. Thank goodness I don't have scars on my back else I would be worried. I assume you received them during one of your mysterious assignments?"
A dark cloud descended, surrounding him, swallowing him whole until he almost choked on his disdain. Bitterness and resentment surfaced. He wanted to close his eyes until the feeling passed and he could breathe easy again.
"You don't need to tell me," she said, concern evident in her tone. "Forget I mentioned it."
Was he so transparent? Could she see the pain in his eyes?
"The marks have nothing to do with an assignment." He couldn't look at her, yet felt compelled to reveal his secret, t
o let her know why he behaved the way he did. Staring at the naked flame as it flickered back and forth, he said, "I was eighteen when my mother died at the hands of that bastard."
He stopped as raucous laughter filled the room: a response to some silly joke. Yet in his warped mind, it sounded like his father's mocking jeers.
Anna put her hand on his sleeve. "You speak of your father?"
"He is no father to me." He covered her hand with his own, the heat warming him to his core, and she did not object. "He provided the necessary funds for us to have a reasonably comfortable life. My mother was so pleased when he agreed to pay for my education. But he grew angry when I refused to visit him during the holidays, stopped paying the rent whilst I was away at school. She died in the workhouse, and I knew nothing of her plight."
He could feel his throat closing tight until he gasped for breath.
She leant forward and brushed the lock of hair from his brow. By God, he wanted to take her in his arms as a way to banish the Devil from his door.
"She died alone, Anna. I never got the chance to thank her for all she'd done for me."
A tear trickled down her cheek, and she pursed her lips, pressing them together tightly.
"When I confronted him, he had his valet hold me down while he horsewhipped me for my insolence. I have not set eyes on him since that day."
He stared into her brilliant blue eyes, taking in their radiance as though they held a magical ability to heal all pain. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the two men walk behind the counter and disappear through a door at the back.
Marcus exhaled, shook his head to bring his mind back to the present.
"Anna, I need you to do something for me."
"Whatever you need," she said. Her willingness to trust him caused his heart to soar.