The Man Behind the Scars

Or was she more afraid that it would?

And now what? she asked herself, her eyes still fixed on the half-ruined manor, much like its master in that its ravaged wing in no way took away from its grace and beauty. The morning sun was just starting to shine upon it, making it glow slightly. Where will you go? What will you do?

She had no friends, not really, because she never let anyone close. Ever. She hardly thought her actual family members—silly, self-involved Izzy and their mercenary mother—qualified for the term, and the non–blood relations who did, like Allegra and Ben, she would never dream of disturbing with her real troubles. She’d already told Allegra more than she’d told Ben, and what had she really told either of them? Nothing that mattered. She admitted to herself that she didn’t know how. Beyond that, she had no money—and would have even less should she once again owe that fifty thousand pounds. She had no useful qualifications, and was on the wrong end of her twenties to think that modeling gigs could continue to pay her rent. And thanks to Rafe and his efficient staff, she had no flat to return to anyway.

And the truth was, she accepted reluctantly as the cold morning sun shone above her, making all the turmoil rolling around inside of her seem simple, finally—none of that would have mattered if she’d really wanted to leave. She didn’t. And that was the most terrifying part of it all.

She heard movement behind her and, when she turned, it was to see Rafe stepping out from the woods. She should have been surprised by that, but she wasn’t. She doubted there was very much that slipped by this man in his own house, now that she considered it. Just as she wasn’t surprised by the way her heart leaped in her chest, and started to beat just that little bit too fast as she let her gaze move over his guarded expression, his long, rangy body.

“I didn’t take you for the sort who enjoyed a morning constitutional,” Rafe said, his voice colder than the air around them as he moved toward her in that way of his that made her think of the word prowling. “As it involves the outdoors and the countryside.”

He was even more closed off today than usual, Angel saw, shut down and remote, and she felt that deep sorrow for him reverberate within her chest, fusing with the want and the need and making a mockery of everything she’d told herself.

The truth was that she wanted him far more than she wanted to protect herself. When had that happened? But there it was.

“I’m opposed to it in principle and in fact,” she agreed. She searched those stony eyes, looking for the Rafe she knew, but he was a cold, watchful stranger once again, hidden securely away behind that stiff soldier’s stance and that grim mouth. And even so, he came close enough that she had to tilt her head back to look him in the eye. Close enough that she could have reached out and touched him, if she dared. She raised her eyebrows. “I was running away, obviously.”

“So soon?” His voice was bitter, his eyes dark. But he did not sound at all surprised, which rankled more than it should. “I thought you were a bit more stubborn than that.”

Angel smiled, though it felt thin. She wanted to touch him. She wanted to reach out and slide her hands beneath the black coat he’d thrown on over his usual uniform of casual jumper and jeans, to feel the heat of him. Even after everything that had happened, she wanted him.

Maybe, she thought in no little despair and as much panicked confusion, she always would. Maybe it had been too late for her from the start—from the moment she’d clapped eyes on him at that ball.

“It’s lucky that you are possessed of a large estate,” she said casually, as if there was nothing between them but some sparkling conversation. “My urge to run away disappeared in the time it might have taken me to hail a taxi. But all you seem to have here are ten thousand trees and views of the loch, so here I am. Plan thwarted.”

He didn’t respond to her lighter tone. He didn’t crack even his bare-bones version of a smile. If anything, his gaze only darkened as he looked at her, and she had the distinct impression of barely leashed ferocity, burning off of him in waves.

“I can’t think what could have put you over the edge,” he bit out, his voice scathing, as if he could not manage to hold it back or keep it cool. “It must have been dire indeed, to launch you from your bed at so uncivilized an hour, and force you out into the depths of nature.”

He was daring her, provoking her, and it made her hurt for him. For her. For this terrible situation between them—this cold-blooded marriage—that she knew, somehow, she could never fix. Could never, ever make right. Not really. Not for the first time, she wondered what might have become of them if she had never mentioned money when she’d met him. If he had never offered to be her savior. Where would they be now?