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And he hiked back up the mountain before dawn with only the one horse. . . .
—from TRUTH TELLER
Helen woke in the wee hours of the morning in Alistair’s bed. The embers of the fire still glowed in the hearth, but the candle sitting on the table by the bed had long ago guttered out. Next to her, Alistair’s breathing was heavy and slow. She’d not meant to fall asleep here. The realization brought her fully awake. She needed to return to her own room and her children.
With that thought, she quietly inched from the bed and padded to the mantel. There was a jar of tapers here, and she bent and lit one in the fire’s embers, then lit several candles so she could see to dress. She looked around. Her wrap was half under the bed, but she couldn’t see her chemise. Muttering softly to herself, she took up the candle and approached the bed to look. The chemise wasn’t under or next to the bed. Finally she leaned over the great mattress, searching for the chemise amongst the bedclothes. She paused as the soft candlelight illuminated Alistair.
He lay sprawled on his back, one arm flung high over his head, the sheets pushed to his waist. He looked like a sleeping god, his muscled shoulders and arms dark against the white sheets. His face was slightly turned toward her, and she saw that he’d taken off his eye patch sometime during the night. She hesitated briefly before leaning closer to examine his exposed face. She’d only seen him without his eye patch on that first night at the door, so long ago now. Then, she’d been overwhelmed with a feeling of horror. That horror had taken precedence in her mind, wiping out any detailed impression.
She saw now that the eyelid on his missing eye had been closed and sewn shut. It was sunken, true, but beyond that, there was nothing more distressing than a normal closed eye would be. The rest of that side of his face was another matter, of course. A deep gouge ran diagonally across his face, starting below the closed eyelid and ending at a point near his ear. Below that was an area pitted and reddened, the skin thickened and leathery-looking, perhaps some kind of burn scar. Smaller white lines were scattered across his cheekbone, obviously the result of knife cuts.
“Not a pretty sight, is it?” he rasped.
Helen jerked, startled, only just missing dripping candle wax on his shoulder.
Alistair opened his eye to regard her calmly. “Are you examining the beast you let bed you last night?” His voice was deep. Rough from sleep.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured rather inanely. She saw now that her chemise lay half under his shoulder.
“Why?” he asked.
“What?” She yanked at the chemise, but he lay over most of it, and she couldn’t pull it out from under him without ripping the fine fabric.
He didn’t move. “Why be sorry? You have the right, after all, to see what your lover looks like under the mask.”
She gave up on the chemise for the moment and glanced about distractedly for the wrap instead. Really, it felt quite odd to be having a conversation whilst nude. “I didn’t want to seem, well, rude, is all.”
He grasped her wrist and pulled her toward him, taking the candlestick from her hand and setting it on the small table by his side of the bed. “It’s not rude to want to know the truth.”
“Alistair,” she said softly, “I must return to my own room. The children—”
“Are most likely sound asleep,” he murmured. He tugged at her arm, and she half fell across him, her breasts crushed to the heat of his chest. He leaned up and brushed his lips across hers. “Stay.”
“I can’t,” she whispered. “You know that.”
“Do I?” he rasped against her lips. “Someday you’ll leave, but right now I know only that it’s very early and my bed is very cold without you in it. Stay.”
“Alistair…” She hadn’t seen this side of him before, this gentle, charming lover. He was very appealing like this, and her resolve wavered.
“Is it the eye? I can put the patch back on.”
“No.” She drew back a little to see his face. Truly, she was no longer shocked by the scars, horrible as they were.
He placed his large hand on the back of her head and gently drew her down. “Then stay a little longer. I haven’t had a chance to properly woo you.”
She drew slightly away, eyeing him uncertainly. “Woo me?”
A corner of his mouth curled in amusement. “Court. Dance attendance on. Woo. I’ve been remiss.”
“And what would you do if you were to woo me?” she asked, only half in jest. She’d never been wooed, not properly. Surely, he wasn’t referring to marriage, was he?
He cocked one arm beneath his head, his mouth still curled. “I don’t know. I’m a bit rusty at paying court to a beautiful woman. Perhaps I should compose an ode to your dimples.”
Startled laughter puffed from her lips. “You can’t be serious.”
He shrugged and reached up with his free hand to play with a lock of hair near her face. “If you can’t abide poetry, I’m afraid I’m left with carriage rides and bouquets of flowers.”
“You’d bring me flowers?” He was joking, she knew, but a small, silly part of her heart wanted to believe him. Lister had bought her expensive jewels and an entire wardrobe, but he’d never thought to give her flowers.
