Chapter 9 #2
She reached across the table and covered his fist with her hand. “You did not think yourself worthy of love,” she finished for him in a whisper.
Now he turned to meet her gaze, and she almost cried aloud at the sight of the pain in his eyes.
“Ye’re wrong.”
“No, you are wrong, Lyon.” She squeezed his hand as she continued fervently.
“Your reputation is wrong, and you are even more wrong if you believe it. You are not a beast. You have been wounded, yes, but you have shown so much courage and determination to overcome it. You take care of your body, and you do not drink or overeat, or indulge in any of the vices a man in your position might. You show more strength in your little finger—and I do not mean physical strength, you daft man—than others do in their whole lives.”
“None of that has anything to do with what I deserve, Bonnie.”
“Then tell me.”
To her surprise, his hand twisted under hers until his fingers were twined with her own.
“Do ye ken how I—” Using his other hand, he gestured half-heartedly to his ruined cheek and neck. “How this happened?”
She shook her head mutely, and he took a deep breath.
“I’d like to tell ye.”
Her heart sped up, and she tightened her hold on him briefly. “I would like to hear it from you.”
He nodded once, then took a deep breath and pulled his hand out from under hers. She tried not to feel bereft, and when he gripped his cup with both hands, she realized it was only because he felt uncomfortable.
“Rose and I were married when we were quite young. We were both determined to be good spouses, though we didnae have much in common.”
As he began, Bonnie felt herself exhale, relaxing slightly against the back of the chair behind her. Not because she wanted to be more comfortable, but because she knew what was coming and was bracing herself.
“Rose was a painter, as ye ken. No’ watercolors, which is common for young ladies, but oil painting, which is almost a science.
I loved watching the way her canvas could blend and shift right before my eyes, and she used her fingers as often as the brushes.
As I told ye before, she’d asked for a private space where she could lock everyone else out and suggested the auld stables. ”
“Which you were not using otherwise,” Bonnie offered softly.
“Aye. It was simple enough to help her set up a studio there, and while she was often cold in the winter, the servants made certain to keep the braziers warmed. I think she liked the fact, when she didnae want company, she could lock us all out.”
It was the way he said it which hinted at the deeper pain.
“And…did she often not want company?”
Lyon lifted his cup but didn’t drink from it. His haunted eyes met hers over the rim. “I think she…changed. I loved her, I truly did, and I believe she loved me. But a few years into our marriage, after her third miscarriage, she…” He shook his head. “She wasnae the same.”
Perhaps it was chemistry, or something within her brain. Bonnie had read about how trauma could affect women that way. “I am sorry,” she whispered, chill seeping into her stomach despite the warmth of the coffee.
“Aye, well, as she changed, so did her paintings. I could tell she was hurting, but I thought if I left her alone…” He sipped at the coffee, then immediately reared back. “Satan and all his little minions, what is this swill?”
Her gaze jerked up. “You do not like coffee? Why did you order it?”
“Because ye did. This is really coffee?” He peered down into the dark depths of his cup. “I usually content myself with water or tea, although I had coffee infrequently at school. I dinnae remember it tasting quite so…”
“Bitter? Hot?”
“Foul.”
She tried to hide her smile. “Perhaps some cream and sugar…?”
“Perhaps I dinnae force myself to drink something I’d no’ force upon swine.” He raised his hand and gestured to the server. “Tea please.”
The man nodded and hurried away, and Lyon turned back in time to catch Bonnie’s slight smile.
“What?” he asked her.
She shrugged. “I like that you do not do things you do not want to do merely for polite society.”
“So ye think me impolite for refusing to drink coffee, just because that’s what ye’re drinking?”
“No, Lyon. I think you brave.”
He snorted. “Drinking that coffee is brave. No’ drinking it is basic self-preservation.”
That wasn’t what she’d meant when she’d called him brave, but since he was focused on the server bringing him his tea, she didn’t explain it. Besides, if she knew him—and she was certain she did—the praise would make him uncomfortable.
When he was settled with his tea and the offending coffee had been removed, Bonnie watched him sip and nod in satisfaction. When he placed the cup down, she leaned forward.
“So Rose changed?” She wasn’t going to allow the topic to drop.
His eyes flicked briefly to hers, then to the pastry on his plate. “I dinnae think I realized how much. She began to lock herself away with her paints and turpentine more and more frequently, and then, one late winter morning…”
A muscle along the smooth side of his jaw jumped, and she longed to soothe him.
His voice lowered. “Keith burst into the library to find me and tell me the stables were afire. When I reached the courtyard, it was already an inferno—the auld straw and all of her paints, I assume.”
“She was inside?”
His nod was jerky. “The door was locked. All I could think was that she was trapped in there, and I should’ve realized the danger it posed.”
Slowly, his hands curled into fists on either side of the plate.
“Keith tried to stop me, but I kenned I had to get her out.” His voice was curiously devoid of emotion.
“The door was impassable, of course, but by that time, the back half of the building—where she painted—was almost gone, so it was easy enough to break through the wall.”
The thought of him throwing himself into danger that way for the woman he loved made Bonnie’s throat close up and her eyes fill with tears. Blindly, she groped for his hand, but ended up knocking against her cup and splashing dark coffee across the tablecloth.