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The scars were surely still there. William swore that nothing would make them disappear. But Greer did not avoid them. Instead, he continued to rub her muscles that lay under the puckered, thick skin patches. He got to her feet where he massages the arches, making her moan.
“That feels so good,” she murmured against the pillow.
“Turn over,” he said in a soft rumble.
It took her several breaths to start to turn, but he didn’t rush or push her over. Slowly, she rolled to her side, facing away from him. Then she scooted to lay on her back, her knees bent. She kept her eyes closed.
Lucy startled as he kissed her lips gently, and she blinked to stare into his rugged face. “I see ye, Lucy Cranfield.” Pity was absent. Anger was muted. The strength she heard in his voice and saw in his face was something much more powerful. It was truth.
He kissed her forehead, and went down to her feet, rubbing the tops of them until she sighed with pleasure. Strong thumbs worked up her shin and into the muscles of her thighs, right over one of the worst scars above her knee. He avoided the crux of her legs, which clenched with demands and made her shift. But he continued up her abdomen where she knew several marks had been burned, marring the softness of the pale skin there.
Lucy’s eyes were closed, following him in her mind. But they opened when she felt his lips on her skin. His bent head was full of dark waves as he gently kissed the scar on her abdomen. He moved up to the next, kissing it. Not in a passionate way, but in a soft accepting way.
Lucy blinked at the pressure of tears in her eyes. He lifted his head to meet her gaze. She felt a tear escape, running in a line across her temple to her ear. He leaned down again and kissed another scar farther up under her breasts. Gentle. Reverent.
Another tear escaped, sliding into her ear, and he continued to kiss each scar along her body. Taking her left hand, he massaged it, each finger and the hollow of her palm. When he took her scarred right hand, she nearly pulled it away, an impulse she curbed.
He rubbed each finger and her palm like the other, but then he turned her palm up. His gaze met hers as he bent, kissing the center where the skin was blotchy and thick. Another tear slid to her ear, and she sniffed slightly.
Greer laid back on his side, raised on his elbow as he stroked her uncovered body gently. They stared at each other, and her heart swelled with emotion. His bent finger caught the next tear as it slid out, and he leaned in to kiss her lips ever so gently.
His eyes were beautiful as he looked into hers, and he brushed her hair back from her damp cheek. “Ye are beautiful, Lucy. Do not doubt that.”
“They are hideous,” she whispered, and more tears came, making her blink.
“Whoever told ye that, whether it be your mother or yourself, was wrong. What was done to ye was hideous, but ye are beautiful. Ye are strong, a survivor. Ye are compassionate and kind, and your smile lifts the suffering of those ye encounter.” He leaned slightly forward, their gazes tethered. “If that is not beauty, then the meaning of the word has been corrupted. So, I will call ye bòidheach.”
The word made her heart beat hard, and worry must have shown in her face. He smiled. “’Tis Gaelic for beautiful. If the word is corrupt down here in England, I will use my language of warriors long past, fighting for those they love, and seeing the truth beyond a picture in a polished glass. Bòidheach, Lucy, lass. Ye are that from your sweet little toes to the strands of flaxen gold on your head.”
Her throat was closed with emotion, and she cleared it softly. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Greer pulled the blanket back up over them both and kissed her lips. “Nay, lass, thank ye.”
He pulled her close against him. Lucy hadn’t realized how stiff she must have been before, worrying that he would feel the roughness of her scars. Because now she relaxed, truly let go, and cuddled into Greer. This was trust, the first time she’d ever experienced it. Trust and some other fierce emotion. Lucy’s heart squeezed with fear. How could she survive when he left London, left her?
*
Greer straightened hissash. He picked up the three gifts wrapped in velvet cloth and tied with colorful spun cording. One was from Lord Moray in the name of King James for Queen Elizabeth and the other two were from him to Lucy.
Lucy. He hadn’t been able to get her out of his mind. He’d walked her back to her room at dawn, and then he’d been busy all day finding her a Hogmanay gift. He’d thought of getting her a looking glass but didn’t want it to seem contrived to remind her that she was beautiful. After she’d trusted him through the night to see her scars, he didn’t want to ruin it with a foolish gift.
He’d meant every word he’d said to her. The only thing he’d kept in check was the fury he’d felt that she’d had to endure the physical and mental pain of having her body mutilated. Her mother was truly a criminal, not only to the crown. Her father, as well, if he knew what was going on and hadn’t stepped in to stop it. And Greer knew enough about scars from his own mother that he knew one night of loving Lucy wasn’t going to heal her inside. He would need to remind her for a long time before she truly loved herself.
I don’t have a long time.
Daingead. After Twelfth Night, Lord Moray expected him back in Edinburgh with news of the assassin’s failed attempt. He’d written him to tell him about the poisoned courtier and the precautions Walsingham was taking to ensure Elizabeth’s welfare. If anything happened to Elizabeth before James came into his majority, Catholics would rally to put the imprisoned Mary Stuart on the throne of England, something the Protestants in Scotland feared after their persecution all over Europe and under Elizabeth’s older sister, Mary Tudor.
Greer locked his room and walked down the corridor toward the Great Hall where Lucy had said they should meet. Greer had spoken with Mary O’Brien earlier to make certain she wasn’t going to talk about them inspecting the larder. She seemed accommodating but asked him not to talk about her mum’s secret of freezing jam in cake. He’d assured her that he was not in the habit of discussing baking techniques with anyone.
Greer whistled a light tune as he walked along. When was the last time he’d spontaneously whistled? Had he ever? Surely England hadn’t made his heart lighter. It was an Englishwoman.
Laughter came from the Great Hall as he neared, his boots tapping on the stonework. He rounded the corner and stopped before a small crowd that had opened a thoroughfare down the center of the room. Two ladies held large wooden spoons with one egg each balanced on them. One hand on the spoon and one clutching their skirts, they raced with even steps down the center, their faces tense in concentration.
Lucy stood at the finish holding out her scepter. She wasbòidheach, beautiful. She wore a bright green gown that was dotted with pearls. Her stomacher was embroidered with gold thread into holly leaves. The hood she wore was made of cloth of gold and allowed some of her curls to show about her shoulders and long neck, which she did not cover up with a ruff. Her already lovely face was open with mirth, making her even bonnier.
She glowed of happiness and laughed out loud with the room when one lady dropped her egg. It splattered on the floor in a pile of yellow yolk and clear muck. The second lady continued slower, reaching the end.
“Lady Margaret is the winner,” Lucy called above the applause. She held the lady’s egg up high.
