What a Woman Desires (7 page)

Her words pierced his ego and stirred his temper, but Thomas held fast and resisted the urge to deny her accusations. Who was he to correct her on a man she knew better than he ever did? “And if that’s true, what of it?”

“He wouldn’t have confided any family secrets to you, no matter what light you try to paint him in to protect my feelings.” She smiled softly. “Never say again my parents loved me. Love doesn’t hurt. I know that now.”

He swallowed. “You have found true love?”

She laughed and stepped back, her gaze shifting to the distance above his shoulder. “No, not I, but I have witnessed it in others.” She faced him. “And it is a beautiful thing.”

He met her smile. “I know.”

She stiffened. “You do? You are married? Engaged?”

He swallowed. “No, I speak of my parents.”

“Oh.” Her shoulders slumped and her gaze lingered on his a second longer before she looked to the narrow ground separating them. “My estrangement from my family was long and final for a reason. Papa made it impossible for me to return home.”

Thomas stared at her bowed head, trepidation of further unwanted knowledge bearing down on him. “What did he tell you to make you never come back?”

She closed her eyes. “It’s not what he told me.”

“Then what?”

“It was his reaction to what
I
told him.”

Monica shivered despite the sun’s warmth on her face and the caring concern in Thomas’s eyes. To share her hidden shame with him was the very last thing she wanted, but she only had him to rely on, and she could not get through this time in Biddestone alone. More than anything, she needed Thomas’s trust and understanding.

Fear skittered over her skin. He cared for her. They’d even wavered, naïvely, on the precipice of first love many years before. More than anything, discernment of his unending need to protect her and her sister hitched Monica’s nerves to breaking. Thomas’s temper was quick but always justified. That knowledge made it all the harder to tell him about her time with Malcolm . . . but tell him she must.

She took a deep breath and exhaled. “Your words last night and the way you occasionally look at me with such disappointment tells me my parents never told you, or anyone else in the village, the truth behind my disappearance.”

He drew his lips together, his gaze intense and unwavering on hers.

When it was clear he had no intention of saying more until he had her explanation, Monica seized the moment to unburden herself before her courage was stolen, never to return. “The first time Malcolm hit me, I told myself it was warranted, that I had acted in too demanding and impatient a manner. Before that day, he’d courted me as only a real gentleman would. He took me to tea, dancing, introduced me to some of the loveliest people I have ever met.” She looked into Thomas’s eyes and prayed he understood the vibrancy of the carrot Malcolm dangled so expertly in front of her. “He enjoyed the theater more than anything. He introduced me to plays my parents never would have dreamed of allowing me to see. He arranged for me to venture backstage and I was caught, trapped, in the wonder of everything in the theater. I fell in love with all of it . . . including him.”

Still, Thomas said nothing. His eyes had darkened with an anger she couldn’t describe and his jaw was like granite. She clutched his forearm and the tendons stretched taut beneath her palm. “You have to understand. I’ve loved the theater my entire life. I’ve dreamt of it since I was a girl and here was this man, a man I thought sincere and kind, promising me the world . . . so I gave him everything he wanted.”

A muscle twitched and relaxed in Thomas’s jaw, but now she’d started, the words refused to stop. “The second time he hit me, I knew I was in trouble, but I’d . . .” She closed her eyes briefly before opening them again. “I’d lain with him, Thomas. He threatened to tell Papa my virginity had been taken and with it, my reputation and chances of another man wanting me ruined. I was terrified and trapped.”

Thomas’s eyes were like two pieces of jet, and his cheeks blotched red with anger. Monica glanced down. His hands were tightly clenched at his sides, the knuckles white. She snapped her gaze to his. “If I would have thought there was any chance of my father forgiving me, I might have returned home and done my best to be a good daughter.”

His eyes filled with dangerous fury. “There is more you’re not telling me.”

She flinched. “More?”

“Yes, Monica. More.”

She trembled as the healed scars on her back itched, reminding her of the extent of Malcolm’s brutality and the dreaded whip of his belt. Fear of Thomas’s reaction of knowing just how brutal her situation became tiptoed up her spine and she gripped his bicep. “There’s nothing more. You have to promise me you will react to what I’ve told you as a friend. I need you to be here for me and not linger on the past. I am begging you not to carry out retribution. Malcolm is where he is supposed to be and will remain there for a very long time.”

“Where?” His face was white with rage.

She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter, and no matter how many times you ask, I will not tell you. What’s important is you understand why I didn’t return. I told Papa of Malcolm’s language toward me . . . and I told him of our lovemaking.”

He trembled in her grip. “Did you not tell him of the beatings?”

Shame engulfed her and Monica shook her head. “No, I couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

Tears smarted her eyes. “I was ashamed.” She lifted her chin, pulling on the power of who she was today like armor. “To tell your parents or friends you’ve endured a man’s fists is more humiliating than anything you can imagine. It isn’t just the flesh they bruise, it’s your entire being. I didn’t want Papa to know.”

He continued to stare at her, his eyes burning bright with fury. “But you told him Baxter spoke to you with derision? That the man took your body and then abused his intimacy with you?”

“I told him Malcolm continually cursed at me, demanded I dress and speak a certain way, and I told him of our time spent in the bedroom.”

“And your father dismissed you? Went after Baxter? What?”

Humiliation washed over Monica despite her attempt to hold on to her pride like a precious, life-saving vessel. She held his gaze, her heart thumping. “He demanded that I either marry Malcolm or never come home. My parents’ only concern is the Danes family name. You should know that better than anyone. I admire your high regard for them, but please, don’t reject my friendship based on my inability to return to a house where my parents’ ambition mattered more than my welfare.”

Time stood still as Monica waited for his next words or action.

The crows had fallen silent and the breeze dropped as though holding its breath. She counted the seconds, her gaze burning into his. His anger was palpable, but she would find a way to soothe it.

Thomas had to release the past as she’d learned to do.

“The future is what’s important now.” She stared at the thin line of his lips. “Help me to do the right thing by you, Mrs. Seton, Jane, Jeannie, Stephanie, and everyone else. I can’t do this alone. I need you to show me the running of the house. To make me understand what is important and what isn’t. You’re right. I’ve been away too long and things have clearly changed beyond recognition.”

He tore his arm from her grip and turned his back to her. He snatched off his hat and pushed his hand into his hair, holding it there. “You should have come to me. You should have told me. Written me.”

Monica stared at his turned back, tears burning her eyes. “I would never have done that.”

He spun around. “Why not? You know how I felt about you . . .” He clenched his jaw. “How I feel about your family.”

Monica’s breaths caught like sharpened knives in her throat. “I was ashamed. I thought my life was over. Then I met Adam and—”

His huff of laughter sliced her words. “Another man? You went to
another
man rather than me?”

She flinched and her temper snapped at his implication. “It wasn’t like that between Adam and I.”

“You told me you have not found love, so who is this Adam to you? A friend? An occasional lover?”

She glared. “A friend. A wonderful friend. Do not accuse me of leaping from one man to another.”

“Then why not come to me? Am I nothing to you? Do you look at me and see a hopeless case? A man who couldn’t stand up against the toffs and dandies of Bath?”

“Of course not.”

“Then why, Monica? Why would you not have wanted me there with you?”

“How could you have been? You belong here. I know how you feel about the city.” She shook with anger and frustration. “Why do you insist on making this about you? Do you think these are the questions I should have to answer after everything I have just told you? Do you think your reaction proves friendship to me?”

He stared at her, his eyes bulging and his body trembling.

She closed her eyes, her heart aching with the longing to step forward and close the huge chasm that had opened between them like a wound—yet she could not dismiss the distain in Thomas’s voice. He assumed she took another lover straight from leaving the hurt and humiliation of Malcolm’s supposed protection.

She sighed. “Adam is my friend. He believed in me. He believed I could act and he helped me. He trusted in my abilities and ensured that I didn’t leave the theater to do something unimaginable in order to survive.” She swiped at the traitorous tears that slipped over her cheeks. “I thought you held the same trust and believability in me. I never asked for your help because, if I had, there was every chance Papa would have forced you from his service if he discovered you came to my aid. I never came to you because I cared for you. I didn’t want to see you lose your position because of my stupidity.”

Thomas squeezed his eyes shut. “I cannot believe this. All this time, Monica. How could you have stayed away all this time?”

“I had to, but I’m happy now.” She forced a smile in the hope it appeased his palpable anger. “I have my pride intact and am living my life at the theater as I always wanted. Why would I risk coming back here and being torn asunder once more?”

He fisted his hands on his hips and stared at her. His eyes were glazed as though he didn’t see her at all, and Monica feared the visions undoubtedly swimming in his mind. “Thomas, this is doing no good. We—”

“I’ll take you home.” He strode back along the path.

She lifted her skirts and hurried after him. She reached him as he stood beside Jake, clutching the reins. “Thomas—”

“You should be at home with your mother and Jane. I shouldn’t have brought you out here.”

She glared at his profile. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”

“For now, yes.” He met her eyes and donned his hat. “I need time to process what you’ve told me.”

“I’m asking for your help
now,
Thomas. I need you. Can’t that be enough?”

His jaw tightened.

Panic thundered through her. “You will not mention my mistakes with Malcolm again? It’s in the past?”

His gaze bored into hers for a long moment before he stepped forward. Barely a hairbreadth separated them and his breath whispered over her lashes. He drew his gaze over her face to linger at her lips. “I’ll help you, Monica. I would’ve been there then, and I’ll be here now. You only ever had to ask.”

He gripped her waist and lifted her from the ground to the front of Jake’s saddle so suddenly and with such a force, she gasped and gripped the pommel to stop from falling. With his eyes on hers to the very last second, he emitted a low growl before forcing his foot into the stirrup and levering into the saddle behind her.

Trembling, Monica turned and faced front. The authority and coldness in his eyes silenced her desperation; stole any possible or reasonable words from her brain. With a click of his tongue, Thomas directed Jake to an about turn and they started the journey back toward Marksville House, leaving Monica to fight the sobs gripping like painful reprisal in her throat.

 

Thomas eased Jake to a stop midway along the graveled driveway leading to Marksville House, his hands trembling with suppressed anger on the reins. “Would you prefer to walk from here? Or shall I take you to the door?”

Monica’s body was stiff within the circle of his arms. She cleared her throat. “I’ll walk from here. It wouldn’t be right for someone from the house to see us riding together this way.”

Thomas scowled. “As you wish.”

He did not care that his silence for the entirety of the ride back might have disappointed, hurt, or angered her. For now, not speaking was a better and safer option. The sensations he’d felt when Monica’s confessions spewed from between her lips had terrified him. One moment the pain in his heart was agonizing; the next, hot and dangerous violence made him tremble with terrifying intensity.

He could not have stood in front of her another moment and withheld the raw, animalistic need to take her in his arms and cover her mouth with his to stop her from telling him more. Her glistening tears had made her blue eyes impossibly bright, her flushed cheeks belying her fear of her past and maybe even her future.

Thank God he had not answered her plea for no retribution. He had promised nothing as far as Baxter was concerned and was free to stew on the options before him. All he could think about was what Baxter had inflicted upon her. Throughout the ride to the house, blood had blurred his vision and perspiration itched his head and upper lip. He could kill the bastard with his bare hands without need for weapon or warning.

Taking care not to jolt or even touch her, and have his need to hold her overtake his common sense, Thomas released the reins—and Monica—from the circle of his arms. He ran his gaze over the back of her head, down to her shoulders and flowing tresses, before briefly closing his eyes and swiftly dismounting.

Images of Baxter’s face filtered through his mind and lingered like macabre tattoos. He’d seen him a number of times at the Danes’s Bath residence. He’d watched him fuss and fawn over the master and Mrs. Danes as much as Monica herself, and now knew the scum was merely laying the groundwork for his upcoming ruin of their daughter.

He reached up and Monica inched forward before gently falling into his grasp. He moved to release her when she urgently cupped her hands to his jaw, halting the air in his lungs. She looked deep into his eyes, her blue gaze laced with pleading. “Let my time here be spent making things right, Thomas. Don’t let it be about Malcolm.”

She asked the impossible. He shook his head. “If it’s not about that, then what is it about? You cannot be surprised by my anger. The knowledge of what the man did to you changes everything.”

Her gaze darted over his face. “No, it doesn’t. That will only happen if you let it be so.”

Didn’t she understand his love for her? Didn’t she hear his slip of the tongue when they’d been in the fields? He might as well have confessed his damn heart to her and allowed her to stomp all over it. She was here to bury her father and deal with an enormous estate, but now he could think of nothing past Baxter. She stared at him and Thomas cursed that he couldn’t be what she wanted him to be.