BLACKTHORNE’S HEART WAS beating so hard his chest hurt. “Answer me! What happened to your back?”
She remained silent, but he could hear her panting in the dark.
“Take off that gown and show me your back.”
“No,” she whispered, adding in a frightened, quavery voice, “Please. Don’t…”
Blackthorne held on to his wife’s wrist, tugging her resisting body after him as he left the bed, ignoring the nightshirt that lay on the floor, as he headed—heart in his throat, anger at her deception building—for the stream of moonlight that could be seen through his bedroom window.
When he reached it, he slung her around so her gowned body collided with his naked one, then reached up and caught the two sides at the front opening of the gown and ripped the flimsy silk in two. Before she could do more than gasp, he yanked the gown back from her shoulders all the way to her waist, binding her arms and exposing her naked back.
He inhaled a sharp breath and felt gooseflesh rise on his arms, as he stared at the slashing scars that crisscrossed her flesh. She was breathing in frightened gasps as he angled her body toward the window. The moonlight suddenly revealed the horror of what had been done to her. He reached out hesitantly with the balls of his fingers to trace the largest scar—from the deepest wound—and felt her flesh quiver beneath even that gentle touch. His belly curled in on itself in sympathetic pain and his heart pounded as though he were a child running in fright.
His brain was swirling with questions for which he needed answers. Where had she been? Why was she here? Why had she married him? But his throat was too raw and swollen to speak.
The raised scars looked startlingly white in the moonlight. He could still see each one as they’d looked when he’d tended her on the ship.
His wife whimpered like a wounded animal as he traced the scar that ran from just under her arm, across her back, all the way to her hip, and then followed the one that angled from her nape to a spot just under her right breast. He knew each slash intimately. He remembered them as though he’d seen them yesterday. He touched the last, devastating cut she’d received, the one marking in blood what had been virgin flesh.
He could still hear the sound of her scream that long-ago day, as the whip cut into her shoulder. He could still see each deep gash dripping with bright red blood. He shuddered at the memory of her pleading moans not to hurt her anymore, as he’d treated her infected wounds. And he would never forget the sound of her raspy voice, begging him to let her die.
Blackthorne realized he was trembling, and that his breath was coming in harsh breaths as rapid and uneven as hers.
He’d married the woman he’d rescued in the Dakota Territory, the woman he’d fantasized about for two years. He was holding her in his arms. Where was the joy he should be feeling?
Swallowed whole by confusion.
Why hadn’t she said something before now? What the hell was going on?
Blackthorne turned his wife so he could see her face again. Her chin was tilted mutinously upward, and her eyes burned with strong emotions he could easily identify but didn’t understand.
Contempt. Loathing. Scorn.
He felt unaccountably hurt. Why should the woman he’d rescued loathe him? What had he ever done to offend her?
Blackthorne could feel the resistance in his wife as he drew her back toward the bed, the urge to be gone from his sight. He kept waiting for her to speak, but her lips were pressed so tightly together, her mouth had become a thin, obdurate line.
He seated himself on the bed, draping a sheet over his aroused body, disgusted with himself for desiring her despite everything. He dragged her down beside him, holding tight to her arm, lest she escape.
He swallowed over the painful lump in his throat and demanded, “Why didn’t you tell me who you are? Why did you marry me?”
Her lips turned down in something that looked like revulsion, and her body stiffened, as though she couldn’t bear his touch.
He felt another jab of hurt and resisted the urge to shake the answer out of her. His jaw tightened, and he gritted his teeth in frustration.
She must have realized he was at the end of his tether, because she said in a voice dripping with disdain, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He laughed, but it was a bitter, ugly sound. “I tended your back myself. I recognize the scars. The deepest one, from your right shoulder to your left buttock. The sliver under your left shoulder blade. The short one along your side. The one that curls over your shoulder. The one on your nape. I know them all. Intimately.”
Her mouth was open as she sucked air, and her eyes looked panicked. Good. Maybe she would give up this ridiculous game she was playing and explain herself.
“And I recognize the names, my dear.” There was nothing tender about the endearment. It was spoken with all the fury—and hurt—he was feeling.
Her eyes narrowed. “What names?”
“Miranda. And Harry.”
The blood left her face. He wasn’t sure how he could tell, considering the fact that her skin was already deathly pale in the moonlight.
She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
“Is there something you want to tell me?”
She looked him right in the eye and said, “No, Marcus. Nothing.”
She ripped herself free of his astonished grasp and ran for the open door to her bedroom. He got tangled in the sheets, but even so, he was only a step behind her when the door slammed in his face and he heard the key turn in the lock.
He pounded the door with his fist and roared, “Open the bloody door, Josie.”
He waited for her to shout back at him, but he was met by nightmarish silence. He gnashed his teeth, fighting the urge to throw his shoulder into the wooden barrier and break it down.
He wasn’t just enraged because she’d been lying to him from the moment he’d seen her in London. He was also furious because, even now, knowing how she’d deceived him, knowing in what low esteem she seemed to hold him, he still wanted her with his whole being. Even while he’d been questioning her about her deceit, he’d wanted to caress her breasts, to taste the flesh at her throat, to thrust himself deep inside her.
He couldn’t believe the infernal, captivating, irritating, unbelievably desirable woman had managed to make her escape without offering an explanation for where she’d been for the past two years, or why she’d come back to London and married him.
His fist was poised to bang on the door again, but he realized he didn’t want to give her the satisfaction. He grabbed his nightshirt from the floor where it had fallen and pulled it on over his head, as he stalked toward the door leading to the hallway. If he stayed in his bedroom, he didn’t trust himself not to do something stupid, like tearing the door that separated them off its hinges.
If he was right about what he’d discovered, he’d married the American girl he’d been obsessed with for two years. But it wasn’t exultation he felt at the knowledge. Oh, no. Far from it! He felt like a fool for not immediately recognizing her.
Surely, Miss Josephine Wentworth must have known, when she’d shown up on his doorstep, that he was the man who’d rescued her. So why hadn’t she admitted the truth from the start? Why had she continued to keep her identity a secret after they were married? What was the point? What was it she wanted from him? What did it all mean?
He headed downstairs in the dark, realizing as he did so that, although he hadn’t lived here in years, he knew—and loved—the Abbey well enough to traverse it with only moonlight for his guide. He was unsure where he was going, until he arrived in the library and saw the decanter of brandy. He poured one for himself and drank it down in a single gulp. He poured himself another before sinking into the leather chair before the last embers of the fire.
If she’d lived in an orphanage after her parents died, where had she gotten the fortune she’d given him to become his duchess?
That was another mystery to be solved. Josie had been wearing homespun clothing and work boots when he’d rescued her. What was an heiress doing all by herself in the middle of the Dakota Territory?
Blackthorne could hardly believe the woman he’d married was the battered girl he’d rescued. He didn’t know what he’d expected his American waif to look like when her face finally healed, but physically, there was nothing of his wife that reminded him of that bloody, beaten girl. Except, there was that slight bump on her nose that could have been the result of a break. Were the gold-rimmed spectacles part of her disguise? Or did she actually need them?
If he hadn’t discovered the scars on her back, which he now realized she’d purposely concealed from him on their wedding night, he would never have suspected anything. Blackthorne shook his head in disbelief, as he considered how little he knew about his wife. Why hadn’t he asked more questions?
More to the point, why hadn’t she simply admitted she was the girl he’d rescued when he’d confronted her tonight? In fact, why hadn’t she admitted the truth during that brief interview before she’d married him? Did she feel some sort of obligation to marry him to repay him for saving her life? Had she wanted to salve his pride by marrying him without revealing her identity, so he wouldn’t refuse to accept her charity?
If so, what was that scorn he’d seen in her eyes all about? Why had she married him, if she despised him?
Blackthorne chuffed out a breath of air. He’d been obsessed—that wasn’t too strong a word—with the mysterious girl he’d rescued for a very long time. He’d admired her courage, but he’d never been “in love” with her. Although, he might be lying to himself about that. Perhaps it had been necessary to mislead himself because of his previous obligation to marry Fanny.
And now? What did he feel for the woman who was his wife?
Anger at her deceit. Frustration at her unwillingness to explain herself. And, God help him, desire.
Miss Josephine Wentworth should have told him who she was. She should have given him the opportunity to refuse her benevolent offer to rescue him in return. Was that why she disliked him? Because she’d felt obligated to marry him?
Blackthorne had been willing to sell himself to the highest bidder, because he’d believed that whoever married him would be getting something in return for the money she brought to the table. Now he realized why Josie hadn’t cared if her family or friends were in church to see her triumph. She hadn’t wanted his title in return for her money. She’d merely wanted to repay him for his kindness.
That didn’t explain the contempt toward him that he’d seen in her eyes. In his entire life, no one had looked at him with such loathing. No gentleman would have had the courage to offend him in such a manner.
She had.
Did he have it all wrong? Was there some other reason, something he knew nothing about, that had motivated her to marry him? Why did he have the awful feeling he’d been tricked?
Blackthorne’s gut churned. Whatever Josie’s motives, the two of them were bound together for life. Their marriage could only be undone by an act of Parliament, and even then, one or the other of them would have to plead guilty to adultery or some equally heinous moral crime.
He wished Seaton were here. He’d never directly inquired of his friend what he’d done about returning the injured girl to America, and Seaton had never offered the information. He hadn’t wanted to know, because nothing could ever come of his brief interaction with the girl, since he was engaged to marry Fanny. Maybe Seaton would be able to fill in some of the very large blanks in the information he possessed about his wife.
Blackthorne remembered Seaton saying he would be out of town for a few days but, try as he might, he couldn’t remember his friend naming any particular destination. He would send a letter to Seaton’s London residence and hope he returned soon.
Meanwhile, how was he going to deal with his wife? He’d planned to show her the estate tomorrow and visit with neighbors and tenants. Well, why not? She was still his wife, whether she was the girl he’d rescued or not. And until he had some explanation for her behavior, he wasn’t letting her out of his sight.