Untouched

Surprisingly, that full mouth quirked into a wry smile. “So we lie like Tristan and Yseult with a sword between us?”

Hard as it was, hard as he was, he couldn’t help smiling at the absurd image. “I find myself currently embarrassed of a sword.”

He didn’t say that, in the legend, the sword had proven no barrier to passion. He was in enough trouble.

She shook her head. “This won’t work.”

He stalked across the threshold. The blasted night rail slipped again, revealing a smooth white shoulder.

“Unless I spend my nights here, my uncle will kill you.” He watched the color drain from her face. He went on in a more measured tone. “And by here, I mean this bed. I’d offer to sleep on the floor or in a chair but there are no locks. Monks or Filey can check on us any time.”

By now, she was pale as a new moon. She moistened her lips again. Jesus, he wished she’d stop doing that. His fists balled at his sides.

“Grace, this is a ruse to save you, that’s all,” he said in a raw voice.

Without waiting for assent, he headed toward the bed. She slid across, leaving him room. Her voice was subdued as she spoke. “As you wish.”

“Christ,” he muttered and went on before she protested his language. “It isn’t as I wish. Nothing in my bloody life is as I wish. But I’m trying to keep you alive.”

He sat on the mattress and tugged his boots off. He flung them with twin thuds against the wall. He ripped his shirt over his head and pitched it after his footwear.

“Lord Sheene…”

He wrenched his head around to look at her, although the picture of her stretched out against the sheets tempted him far too much. She stared aghast at his naked back.

“Your scars,” she whispered in shock.

He’d forgotten about his ruined back. It was years since the wounds had healed and he’d exercised like a demon to banish any residual stiffness. He hadn’t thought how the sight might affect Grace.

Corrosive shame flooded his face with color. He lurched toward the floor to fumble for his shirt. “I’m sorry. This must offend you.”

Her hand, warm, comforting, womanly, on his back turned him to stone. He closed his eyes and let her touch seep through to his bones, although he knew he should flinch away, hide the degrading evidence of his weakness.

“No, I’m not offended.” She sounded like she fought back tears. He heard her suck in a shaky breath. “Tell me what happened.”

He straightened slowly and opened his eyes to stare down at where his hands fisted on his knees. “One of the doctors attempted to beat the madness out. Monks continued the treatment when he left.”

That was as much of a confession as he could manage. He couldn’t bear to tell her of other beatings or of the times Monks or Filey had blistered his skin with hot irons as he lay tethered like an animal. Although if she looked closely, the map of welts across his skin betrayed his humiliation.

“I’m sorry.” Her hand gently stroked down to his waist. Her touch soothed the old pain even as the brush of her fingers on his skin made forbidden desire flare like a hungry flame.

“It was a long time ago,” he said harshly.

That was true, but his soul still suffered from those beatings as though they’d occurred yesterday.

“You think I’m prying.” Her hand dropped away and he only just stopped himself begging her to touch him again. For comfort. And God help him, for pleasure.

“I think we have enough difficulties in the present without worrying about past troubles,” he forced himself to say.

“You’ve borne so much and I’ve brought you nothing but pain,” she said sadly from behind him. “How you must hate me.”

“You know that’s far from true.”

He turned and glared at her. She was flat on her back and tears glinted in her long lashes. His heart stumbled to a halt at the thought that he’d made her cry. He was a damned clumsy fool. And he couldn’t even trust himself to offer a solacing touch.

Her warmth curled out to entice him nearer. It whispered to let Lord John, Monks, Filey, and the whole damned world go to hell.

He couldn’t give in. Even while denial made every sinew ache.