After the Kiss (36 page)

Marcus had lifted a skeptical brow, but the instant Griggs left him alone, he began the task. He dipped his fingers in the kettle and discovered the water was still warm.

A swell of feeling made his nose sting and his eyes water. He could not believe that after the harsh way he had used his wife, she had gone down on her knees on the hard stone floor to ease his pain. No more than he could understand why he had treated her in a way that was guaranteed to turn her against him.

It had taken Marcus a great deal of thinking to realize he did not believe he deserved happiness, so he had done his best to destroy it.

The hardest part of looking at himself in the glass was admitting that the person he had really been hiding from for the past year was himself. He was the one who believed himself a monster. He was the one who was shocked by his behavior. He had seen himself through his brother’s eyes, and through Eliza’s, and through Julian’s. Marcus was forced to admit that, while he might have had a perfect face and form, he had been a far from perfect man.

Nothing he did now would bring back Julian. Or Alastair who—if he had been the mysterious laird of Blackthorne Hall—had disappeared once again into the mist. Or Eliza’s innocence.

But he could try to live a more exemplary life. He could raise Alastair’s daughters as though they were his own. He could
love his wife and treat her with the honor and respect she deserved
.

Marcus’s heart was racing when he finally soaped his face with his beaver shaving brush, picked up his straight-edged razor, and set to work.

He shaved the uninjured part of his face first. It was surprising to see himself reflected in the looking glass. Blue eyes, arched brows, aquiline nose, mobile lips, strong chin. The Beau he knew emerged as the beard fell away.

Then he focused on the other half of his face. And for the first time, faced the Beast.

The scars did the most to distort his looks around his left eye, where a web of scars shot out in a white spray. His lip was puckered slightly on one side, but as Eliza had pointed out, it hindered neither his speech nor his ability to make love to his wife. A small nick in his chin, a slight indentation, showed where the saber had stopped. The rest of the scars had faded to fine, silvery lines that showed less without the beard than with it.

His face laid bare, Marcus was forced to acknowledge who he was and what he was, and decide what he wanted to become.

That was easier said than done.

Over the past six weeks, he had often been tempted to send for Eliza, to make his apology to her, and admit how much he had always loved her. One thing had stopped him: the fear that she would not be able to forgive him. That she could never learn to love him again because of what he had done in the past. If he never begged forgiveness, he would not have to face the end of all his hopes and dreams.

Of course, if he never begged forgiveness, his hopes and dreams had no chance at all. The longer Eliza kept her promise and stayed away, the more convinced he became that she no longer loved him and the more reluctant he became to bare his soul to her.

Griggs entered the drawing room without knocking, interrupting Marcus’s musing and lending significance to his announcement, “You have a visitor, Your Grace. A lady.”

Marcus leapt from his chair and stood with his back to the undraped windows, his heart racketing around in his chest. He was certain it must be Eliza. His future lay in his hands. He need only say the right things. He need only convince her that he would be a husband she could be proud of, a man she could love. A man who would love her as she deserved to be loved.

The excitement he felt metamorphosed into disappointment when he saw who the “lady” was.

“You will have to excuse me, Your Grace,” Lady Lavinia said as Griggs led her in on his arm. “I need a guide in unfamiliar surroundings.”

“You are welcome anytime, Lady Lavinia.”

“I have come on a matter of utmost urgency,” she said.

“Is something wrong with Eliza or the twins?”

“I am afraid there is a slight problem,” Aunt Lavinia said. “Though I am sure you will be able to correct it.”

Marcus was beginning to think this was a feint by Eliza to draw him out. Some trumped-up disaster that
he must avert. A way to save face for both of them. A smile curled his lips at her deviousness.

“This is not a laughing matter, Your Grace.”

Marcus frowned. How had a blind woman seen the expression on his face? “I never said it was,” he retorted.

“I was afraid you would think this was some trick of Eliza’s to draw you out of hiding. I assure you it is not.”

Marcus’s heart began to pump a little faster. “You said both Eliza and the children are involved. What exactly is the nature of the problem, Lady Lavinia?”

“They all seem to have disappeared.”

Becky stared at the growing pool of blood on the stones around Reggie’s head. Her first panicked thought was to run for help. But she was afraid if she did, Reggie might die before she could find her way back.

Then she remembered they were locked in.

It was very dark. The lantern made a circle of light several feet wide. Outside that glow lay all the horrors Becky had ever imagined in her worst nightmares. A stretching rack and old rusty spikes and lots of other things meant to torture people.

Becky looked around her for something she could use to stanch the flow of blood, but everything was so dirty, so musty, so full of … of spiderwebs. She pulled off her bow—a pink one that matched her pink shift, and squatted down beside Reggie, who was dressed in yellow.

When she lifted Reggie’s head to locate the oozing bump, her hands got covered with something slippery
she soon realized was Reggie’s blood. She let go of Reggie’s head and scrubbed her hands on her shift to get it off, then looked down and gagged at the sight of herself, covered with blood.

She glanced at Reggie and realized she had to do something to stop the bleeding. She could not wait. Becky sniffed back her tears and did her best to bind the wound tightly with the wide pink ribbon.

“Reggie,” she said, shaking her sister’s shoulder. “Wake up.”

Reggie’s eyes remained closed.

Becky ran to the thick wooden door and banged on it, shouting for help.

No one answered. They were completely lost, locked in a dungeon without food or water, somewhere in the bowels of Blackthorne Abbey.

It was the skeleton in one of the torture devices that had caused all the problems. They had bent down to look more closely at the skull, when a spider crawled out of the eyehole. Becky had panicked. She had taken off with the lantern, leaving Reggie in the dark. Reggie had shouted for her to come back, but Becky had only wanted to get out, to get away.

That was when Becky had realized they were locked in. That the wooden door had somehow closed after they had passed through it and was locked tight.

“Reggie, we cannot get out!” she yelled. “Reggie, where are you!”

Reggie had appeared at her side, angry for being left in the dark. “Don’t do that again,” she chided.

“Now you see how Eliza felt,” Becky had not been able to resist saying.

Reggie had found some wooden boxes to stack so she could reach the barred window near the top of the door. It had not been a sturdy sort of ladder, and Becky warned Reggie to be careful.

“I am being careful!” she snapped. “Hand me the lantern, so I can see.”

Becky held up the lantern, but when Reggie reached for it, she lost her balance and went tumbling over backward. She had shrieked once before her head hit the stones.

She had not woken up since.

If only they had told Eliza what they were doing before they entered the secret passageway, Becky thought. If only someone knew they were down here in the dungeon, they might have a chance of being found. A slim chance, because so far she had not found any grates through which she could yell for help.

Her plan had been a good one: She and Reggie would disappear into the secret passageway. When Eliza could not find them in the house or the barn, she would go to Uncle Marcus for help. He would come out of hiding, they would reappear, he and Eliza would make up, and everybody would live happily ever after.

Things had simply gone awry. It had been hours and hours since they had walked into the honeycombed passage. They had taken a wrong turn, and it had led them down here. Even if Eliza remembered the secret passageway, she was too scared of the dark to go in it by herself. Would she break her promise and tell Uncle Marcus about it? Even if she did, it
could be hours before they were found. Maybe days. Maybe weeks.

Becky remembered the skeleton.

Maybe they would not be found at all.

When the twins did not show up for morning tea, Eliza excused herself and went looking for them. She knew they had been disappointed when word came several weeks ago that the new laird of Blackthorne Hall had disappeared as mysteriously as he had arrived. If the laird had been their father, which was by no means certain, he was missing again.

Eliza had watched the twins walk to the end of the lane each day expecting Alastair’s return. Eventually they had given up. Eliza had no idea what had occupied their time lately, because she had been under the hatches. No wonder they felt neglected. No wonder they had not come in for tea. Who would care? Who would notice they were gone?

Eliza searched the better part of the day without finding them. She was beginning to be seriously concerned and wondered whether she should send a message to Marcus—through Griggs—that the children were missing.

She imagined Marcus’s response. Something coldly sarcastic. Something disapproving. Something bound to make her blood boil. Something sure to make her cast up her accounts—and give away the secret she was desperate to hide.

Then it dawned on her where the twins must have gone. And the promise she had made not to tell their uncle about the secret passageway. Of course, if the twins were lost—and they must be, they had been
gone so long—she must tell Marcus and let him search for them. There was no way Eliza could do it herself. She would not be able to take the first step inside that black void.

Eliza was not quite sure why she went up to the girls’ room instead of marching straight to the east wing of the Abbey, except it galled her that she could not even ask her husband for help directly. She had to do it through Griggs. What if Griggs denied her admittance? Would she have to wait like a supplicant while her husband decided whether what she had to say was
important
enough to merit his attention?

Eliza slid her hand along the wall near the twins’ fireplace until she found the release she was seeking. The panel opened without a sound. A damp, moldy smell seeped out into the children’s room. Eliza stared transfixed into the gloom. She lit a beeswax candle in a brass holder, one she was sure would burn brightly for a very long time, and stepped into the abyss.

A zephyr swirled in through the twins’ open window, fluttered the curtains, and blew out Eliza’s candle. Before she could stop it, the panel shut behind her with a slam.

Eliza opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. Her throat was too constricted for air to get past it. She was suffocating where she stood. She fell to the floor in a faint.

Only half concious, Eliza thought she heard a child crying. One of the twins. No, it was someone else. She could see the child in her mind’s eye, three or four years old, with long chestnut hair, and tears streaking her face. She could feel the child’s distress.
The little girl was locked in a small, dark room, and she could not get out.

Eliza concentrated very hard. If she could only see something that would tell her where the child was, she could perhaps find the little girl and help her. She searched the dark room in her vision and saw tins and tins full of … of different tobaccos. How did she know that?

She knew more.

Each tobacco had a distinctive smell, and one blended the crushed leaves to create a personal pipe tobacco. It was an art and a science. Her father had learned it from his father. And he was teaching it … to her.

Such strong odors
. Russian. Turkish. Broadleaf. Burley. Fire-cured. Air-cured. Havana. Virginia.
When would someone come to take her away?
Acrid. Bitter. Musky. Spicy.

Eliza heard herself—or was it the child?—whimpering, calling for help. Calling for someone to come. To save her from the dark.

Where are Mama and Papa? Grandpapa said I cannot leave this room until they come and get me. I am so sorry, Grandpapa. Please let me out. I did not mean to spill your tobaccos and mix them all together. I was only trying to make a tobacco just for you, as Papa taught me to do. It is so dark in here, Grandpapa. Please, I want out!

Eliza could not catch her breath. She knew what was going to happen. She could see it in her mind’s eye. The little girl would not get out. Not for a long, long time.

Eliza watched in her vision as the door opened
and a blinding light filled the room. The little girl squinted her eyes to see who was standing there.

“Papa,” she croaked, her voice nearly gone from screaming endlessly in the dark. “I’m sorry, Papa. I’m so sorry.”

Her papa pulled her into his arms and hugged her tight, as he sobbed against her throat. She tried to pull away, ashamed because she had wet herself, and she was getting him wet. Mama’s eyes blurred with tears as she took her from Papa. She clung to Mama, clung very tight and would not let her go. “Where were you?” she cried. “I called and called, but you never came!”

Her eyes went wide with terror, as Grandpapa entered the room. He and Papa shouted at each other. Papa grabbed Grandpapa’s throat and squeezed and squeezed until Grandpapa turned red and purple and blue.

Mama set her down, and she held tight to Mama’s skirt as she pulled Papa away. Grandpapa was very angry, coughing and choking. Papa was even angrier. He said he wanted to kill Grandpapa, that he was sorry Mama had stopped him.

Mama said Eliza should forget everything that had happened in that horrible room, put it from her mind as though it had never happened. Because they were never going to mention it again. Ever.