Wicked at Heart (37 page)

He expected her
to reprimand him.

Instead, she
giggled.

"You find
that amusing?" he asked, trying to make his mouth look fierce.

"I find it —
encouraging.  Now be still while I put you to rights again."

He heard the
maid return with the shears and bowl, then her hurried retreat.  Gwyneth's
hands were on his face once more, gently thumbing his cheekbones and touching
his brow, his jaw, his temples through the bandages.  It felt good, relaxing. 
He lay back against the pillows, smiling and hoping she would never stop
touching him.

Maybe insanity
wasn't so bad after all.

But on a sudden
note of dread, Damon knew he wasn't insane.  He was enjoying this, enjoying
intimacy
,
and he was a hundred percent right in the head.

He swallowed.

"Does that
hurt?"

"No."

"Does
this?"

"Not much."

"Good.  Be
still, then, while I cut these wrappings off."  Her thumb slipped between
the bandages and the gap at the base of his nose, and he tensed as he felt the
cold point of the shears sliding beneath, snipping, cutting, moving up, up, up
toward his eye.  He froze, barely daring to breathe, and had a sudden, awful
fear that when the bandages came off he still wouldn't be able to see, that he
would be forever blind, crippled, helpless.  He squeezed his eyes shut as she
peeled the warm, damp wrappings away from his face.  Cool air swept in against
his cheeks, brow, and eyelids; he heard the splash of water in the bucket, felt
her gently washing his face with a warm, damp towel.

An expectant
stillness hung in the air.

"You may
open your eyes now, Damon."

His guts seized
up, for the truth was, he was afraid to open his eyes, afraid he would be
blind, and he didn't want her to know he was such a coward.

"You have
not told me why you're here at Morninghall," he persisted, trying to buy
time.  "And I've run out of guesses."

But he knew why
she was here.  He knew, and that truth was so fragile, so frightening, yet so
very much to hope for, he dared not give voice to it.

"Open your eyes,
and I shall tell you."

"I
cannot."

"Yes, you
can."

Anger and
frustration swept through him.  Sweat broke out beneath his spine and his
heartbeat quickened with agitation, but he did not open his eyes.

Her voice was
gentle and patient.

"Open them,
Damon.  Please."

His fist
tightened in fear.  If one of his eyes was missing, he wouldn't be able to see
her.  If he had brain damage, he wouldn't be able to see her.  If, during the
beating, something had broken inside his head, and he was forever impaired, he
wouldn't be able to see her, and not being able to see her was something he
wasn't ready to contemplate —

"I have
something very important to tell you, Damon, but I will not do so unless you
open your eyes."

There was such
raw, aching tenderness in her voice that it made him suddenly want to bawl like
a baby.  He wanted to hate that tenderness, tried to hate it as he'd always
hated pretty flowers and fragile porcelain, but there was something so beauteous
and sweet about it, something so loving and warm, that he could not.  And where
there had once been rage and fury and black, twisted wrath, he felt only a
huge, choking knot of emotion constricting his chest, moving up the back of his
throat until it tightened and closed painfully and he could not even swallow.

I have
something very important to tell you, Damon, but I will not do so unless you
open your eyes.

Moisture
gathered beneath his squeezed-shut eyelids, and Damon had no choice in the
matter but to open them.

He saw watery,
blurry colors:  the dark paneled walls, the gilt and white of the ceiling, and
her
face, wavering above him as though it were mirrored on a rippled pond, the
detail not quite clear but hinted at, soft, ethereal, a pastel study in peach
and rose, framed in gold.  He blinked and the ripples stilled, her face
swinging into focus now so that he could see her soft hair gathered in a ribbon
and hanging over one shoulder, her face serene, her eyes gazing down at him. 
There was no anger, no impatience in that girlishly sweet face, those shining, violet
eyes.  Only softness.  And compassion.

And something
else.

You know what
it is, Damon.

No.  It couldn't
be, he didn't deserve it —

But it was.

He felt the mist
filling his eyes and threatening to spill into tears, felt emotion welling up
in his nose and the back of his throat.  "I
have
opened them,
Gwyneth," he whispered, taking her hand.  "I
have
opened my
eyes."

She touched the
side of his cheek, her smile serene as she gazed down at him.  "So you
have, Damon."

He swallowed
painfully, still holding her gaze.  "And that which you wish to tell
me?"

Her smile
deepened, so heartbreakingly beautiful, so angelic in its warmth and purity
that the ugly black thing inside of him fought for a last foothold in his
chest, then leaped free and fled forever.  And as it fled, everything broke
inside of him, and the tears that had been there for so many years finally
came, rolling down his cheeks and quietly wetting the pillow beneath his head.

He knew what she
was going to say, even before she uttered those simple words that would change
his life forever.

"That which
I wish to tell you, Damon . . .
is that I love you
."

He drew her to
him, unable to contain himself any longer.

"I love you
too, Gwyneth.  God help me, I do."

He felt her arms
go around him, pulling him up and into her embrace, and as he leaned his
forehead against her shoulder and the great, hitching sobs claimed him, the
light shone upon him at last.

~~~~

The Marquess of
Morninghall's recovery was a rapid one, for in his case,
im
patience was
a virtue.  By eight o'clock he was out of bed and on his feet, by nine he was
wolfing down a breakfast of bacon, eggs, and toast while footmen stood silently
behind his chair, and by eleven he was sitting in a huge tub, enjoying his
first real bath in weeks.

That which I
wish to tell you, Damon . . . is that I love you.

Oh, his nerves
were buzzing, his heart pounding, but this time excitement, not anxiety, was
the cause.  He felt as though he had emerged from a thick and gloomy cocoon,
strong, eager to experience life for the first time,
invincible
.  His
past life, his years in the navy, even the terrible injuries that had brought
about his return to Morninghall — all was behind him now, and in his heart, in
his future, there was only Gwyneth.

Pain still
lingered in his head, and his shoulder still throbbed, but when his new valet,
Robin, helped him from the bath and held a dressing gown for him, he felt like
a new man.  Clearing the steam from the looking glass with his sleeve, he saw
that his nose was not broken, his teeth were all there.  It was a miracle.  So
was the fool's grin that seemed permanently affixed to his mouth now, bringing warmth
to eyes that no longer looked empty, flat, and soulless.  Oh, there was still
some faint bruising around one cheekbone, and he got dizzy if he turned his
head too quickly, but it occurred to him that he was oddly unafraid now of his
own body and any attempts it might make to sabotage his health.

Why had the fear
left him?  Was it because he had lain so close to death, faced it, and emerged
triumphant?  Had something happened to him while he'd slept the sleep of the
dead?  He smiled.  Surely, his new joie de vivre and the fact that the most
wonderful woman in the world had told him she loved him had more to do with his
current state of serenity than anything else.

Oh, he could not
wait to begin this day, to begin his
life
!

He turned from
the mirror.  Robin was waiting with his clothes, which Damon recognized from
his wardrobe aboard the prison ship.  "Sorry, my lord," the young man
explained at Damon's questioning look, "Lady Simms had them sent up from Portsmouth. 
She thought you'd be needing them."

"She is
correct.  And where is the lady, Robin?"

"Waiting
for you in the Yellow Room, my lord."

"Leave me
now and go fetch her."

"But I am
here to assist you —"

Damon smiled. 
"You can assist me best by
fetching the lady
."

The lady
arrived five minutes later, and her violet eyes sparkled when she spotted Damon
up and about and garbed in a loose white shirt and breeches, his hair still
damp and tousled from his bath.  She put a finger to her lips, grinning behind
it in delight, a blush tainting her cheeks.

He cocked an eyebrow
at her.  "Would you confess your thoughts, my dear Gwyneth?"

"I would,
my lord, but they are too wicked for words."

"But not,
perhaps, for actions?" he murmured, slanting her a heated look.

"Such
actions shall ensue when you are sufficiently recovered."

"I do think
I shall be the judge of my recovery, dear nurse."

She blushed
fiercely, but boldly held his gaze.  His stared back, his blood heating. 
Didn't she know he felt as strong as Atlas?  Didn't she know the very sight of
her was making him mad with desire for her?

"We shall
see," she conceded at last.

"Yes . . .
so we shall," he murmured, his voice holding a deep note of promise.  He
moved forward and took her hand, raising it to his lips.  Her eyes darkened with
desire.  "In the meantime there is something I must do.  It has been well
over a decade since I last walked the halls of my own house."  His gaze
softened as he stared down into her sweet, upturned face.  "It would
please me, dear Gwyneth, if you would accompany me."

"It would
be an honor, Damon."

He turned
slightly and offered his elbow, and he felt her little hand slip into its
crook.  Then, side by side with the woman who had — in more ways than one —
brought him back from the very brink of death, the Marquess of Morninghall
began the journey that had awaited him for a lifetime.  How many times in his
dreams, his nightmares, had he made this very same walk!  How many times had
the very thought of doing it filled him with anxiety and dread!  But now, as he
moved slowly, stiffly, and not without some lingering pain through the long,
echoing corridors, the silent rooms, gazing upon each ancient bust, each
magnificent old painting and tapestry, each spectacular window view with an
almost boyish wonder, he felt nothing but excitement, pride, and rebirth.  This
was Morninghall Abbey, his house. 
His
house!

And he had come
home.

Excitement built
within him.  He wanted to show her everything.  "There in that state room
is where I played hide-and-seek with my nanny!  There, on that very window seat,
is where I used to sit reading Plato and Aristotle!  And here, in this very
corridor, is where I used to race my cousins, and whoever got to the pilasters
at the end first won —"

He froze.  His
smile faded and the color drained from his face.

They were in the
Lord's Corridor, and there, an arm's length away, was the portrait of Mama.

Staring down at
him.

"I —"
he began, faltering.  Taking a deep breath, he raked his hand through his damp
hair and glanced away, his smile wan.  "My  — my mother."

Gwyneth moved
closer to him, almost protectively.  "I know.  I had her moved out of the
bedroom.  Don't you remember?"

The past
fortnight was a jumble of strange dreams, pain, and fog, and he didn't know
what had been real and what had been the result of fever and delirium.  But he
could well remember Gwyneth, his tigress, defending him against the doctor —
and shouting for the removal of this very painting.

He looked down
at her, his love for her shining in his eyes.  "I will never forget,"
he said softly — and touched his lips to her brow.

She slipped her
hand in his, and they stood together silently.

"You must
think me a coward for staying away all these years," he said, at length.

"No, my
love."  Her voice was gentle, understanding.  "I don't think you're a
coward at all . . . but a survivor."

His heart filled
with emotion, and he could only squeeze her hand, not trusting himself to
speak. 
She always says the right thing.  Dear God, can this love truly be
happening to me?  Can it?

He stared up at
the portrait of his long-dead mother, and gradually that face ceased to be the
one that had haunted and terrified him all these years.  It  became only a
collage of paint and brush strokes, powerless now, a remnant of a past that was
long gone and never would be again.  Another monster faced and conquered.  Another
fear that no longer had any power over him.  He took a deep, cleansing breath.

"She was a
very . . . bad person," he said at last.  "And someday, I will tell
you about her.  But not now."

And as the fear
associated with his mother died a final death, so too did her hold upon him.  He
glanced around him at the vast, echoing corridor, at the paintings, at the
magnificent gilt ceiling above.  No longer did Mama's presence haunt the
shadows and every darkened corner of this magnificent house.  No longer did the
great walls seem as if they were about to fall in around his ears, crushing him
beneath tons of stone in an attempt to murder the devil child his mother had
said he'd been.  Now Morninghall Abbey was just a house, and a very grand one
at that, and there was only one thing this house needed to become a home.

He placed his
hand over Gwyneth's and continued his walk.

A
marchioness.