The Man Behind the Scars

“Stop it,” she hissed at him, hurting for him in ways that made her hurt too. He moved toward her again, as if he couldn’t help himself, his gait lacking his customary grace.

“What do you think, realistically, a man in my position would feel for the woman he purchased? The one who introduced herself to him in the first place by announcing that she was looking for a wealthy man to marry?” He slashed a hand through the air, a greater show of temper than she had ever seen from this watchful, still man, and it made her breath catch. “It could have been anyone at all unlucky enough to be in that ballroom. It happened to be me. You’ll forgive me if love is not the word that springs to mind!”

* * *

She seemed to sway slightly on her feet, and there were bright spots of color high above her cheekbones, but she didn’t back down. She didn’t crumble. She squared her shoulders, drawing his attention, as ever, to her curvy little body displayed to such mouthwatering perfection in the wine-red gown.

But then, he thought cynically, that was her job, wasn’t it? To be a constant enticement? Always desirable?

Her chin rose as if she heard him. As if she was ready to fight him, with her hands if necessary. He couldn’t tell if he hated her for it or admired her misplaced courage. He only knew that he could not tolerate the din and clamor of the thunderstorm rolling around inside of him, and it was her fault. It was all her fault.

He’d known from the start that none of this was fair to her, but he’d wanted her. And now look what he’d done.

“You are such a coward, Rafe,” she said after a moment, biting out the words as if she could not keep them in, and the thunder inside him turned liquid, hot and dangerous, and he felt nothing for a long moment but pure, scorching fury.

“Say that again, please,” he invited her, not recognizing his own voice.

“A coward,” she repeated, enunciating each syllable, her chin titling up again in defiance. “I mean it.”

“Of course I am,” he retorted, letting out some harsh version of a laugh. That terrible heat pumped through him, making the control he had over his temper slip more than it should. He was too angry to yank it back again, and glared at her instead. “That is why I received the Victoria Cross. They hand out the highest medal in the land to the greatest coward, naturally.”

If his sarcastic tone got to her, she didn’t show it. If she was impressed at all by the great honor he’d so reluctantly received, she didn’t show that either. Her blue eyes were darker than he’d ever seen them, and even through his anger, there was a part of him that hated that. That wanted the brightness back. That knew he was the reason it had disappeared.

“You hide away in this remote place, stamping about with a chip on your shoulder the size of the mountains across the loch,” she said in a low, determined voice. “You want to be the monster in the room. You want to drown in your own self-pity. It lets you sit in your grand old house and brood about how miserable you are, without ever having to put that to the test.”

“Because you, of course, never saw these scars, much less what lurks beneath them,” he seethed at her, more sarcasm dripping from his frigid tone. “What a saint you must be, Angel, to be conveniently blind where so many others have been unable to see anything but. I’m sure that is a reflection of your goodness, and has nothing at all to do with how wealthy I am.”

“I don’t care about your money!” she cried, throwing her hands out. “I don’t care about any of this! I care about you—”

“Spare me the histrionics,” he snapped. He had no memory of moving, and yet here he was, towering over her, so close he could smell the faintest hint of her delicate scent, and could see each ragged breath she took. His body knew only that it wanted her. That he wanted her. Even now. He should hate himself for that weakness. He knew he should. “As if I am likely to believe anything that comes out of your mouth. You can either do as I say, Angel, or you can leave. Those are your choices. This is not a relationship. You are not my lover. At best you’re an employee.”

“I believe you mean I am a brood mare,” she supplied, her face gone white.

“So far, you are not even that,” he said viciously. “You have cost me a great deal of money while giving absolutely nothing in return. I should be so lucky as to have a brood mare.”

Her eyes darkened even further, and seemed to stand out much too starkly in her suddenly pale face, and Rafe knew he was the worst kind of bastard. But he couldn’t seem to stop. The rage in him grew with every breath. The words she should not have said, the words he could never believe and never accept, reverberated in his head—getting louder every time, making him colder and colder with each rendition.