Echoes in Stone (29 page)

She closed her eyes.

“No, Jessa. If I have to look, you do as well.”

She opened her eyes, once more meeting his gaze in the mirror. She gifted him with a tremulous smile.

Where had his little spitfire gone?

She trembled. “Dash, I—”

“Jessa, I don’t know what you’re doing to me. I don’t know why. But you started this. We’re going to finish it. Together.”

She drew a deep breath, then straightened her shoulders, lifting her chin. “You’re right. I can’t do this without you. If this is what it takes to get you over your ridiculous notions about your—your—”.

“Yes, Jessa? What are you trying to say?” He refused to help her. If she intended to force him to confront the damned mirror, he intended to force her to say whatever was on her mind. Hell, she couldn’t even say the word
face
to him. He stiffened, but didn’t release his hold on her.

“Your
vanity
! All right, Dash?” His spitfire had returned. “Because that’s all it is. Do you think I care one whit about that stupid scar on your face? Do you think it changes who you are? Do you think it changes how I see you?” She stamped her foot, angry with him once more.

Startled by her vehemence, he looked up. Into the mirror. Her eyes blazed like twin emeralds. Her arms were akimbo, her breasts still in his hands. The flush on her cheeks came from more than the simple reflection of her red robe.

The same flush of anger tinged his cheeks. Both of them. He stared. He dropped his hands to her waist, but didn’t release her. He turned his head, looking upon the scarred left side of his face for the first time in six months.

In the mirror, he watched Jessa raise her hand to lay it on the battered face looking back at him. Her fingers warm, her palm, soft. The whiteness of her hand lay against the swarthiness of his cheek. With a single finger, she traced the path of the scar.

They watched the reflected image together, their breathing shallow.

When she reached the point it arced out away from the corner of his eye, she paused. “I’m so glad she missed that lovely silver eye,” she whispered.

“A fortuitous turn of the head,” he whispered back.

She resumed her path along the scar. It was pink, puckered, but not as violent as he remembered. While he’d been ignoring it, the skin had been healing, lightening. She paused again when she reached its terminal point at the corner of his mouth. “Another fortuitous turn, I presume, to have missed such delicious lips? I’m glad, else I would’ve missed this.” Jessa spun in his arms, planted both hands on his cheeks, pulling his head down to hers. She rose up on her tiptoes, then planted a firm kiss on his lips.

With a groan, he crushed her to his chest. He wrapped her hair in his hand, holding her still as he returned the kiss. He nipped at her lip. When she opened her mouth, he swept his tongue into it. She writhed against him, moaning. Her breasts, full , warm, pressed against his chest. He cupped her bottom, pulling her closer against his now rampant manhood.

“Jessa—”

“Dash, don’t you see?” She looked up at him, earnest, entreating. “It doesn’t matter to me about some silly mark on your face. It doesn’t matter to Holly, or to Winston, or to anyone else, for that matter.”

She stepped out of his arms, then pushed up the sleeve of her robe. She held out her arm for his view. The shiny pink skin of the burn mark stretched from shoulder to elbow.

“Do you feel any differently about me because of this scar, Dash? Am I hideous now? Should I be ashamed? Hide myself from the world because of it?” She stamped her foot again, letting the sleeve fall. She clutched the shawl collar of his black velvet robe in one small fist and shook her finger in his face.

“I’m not going to let this scar on my arm change me or the way I see myself. No more should you. You were the victim of a brutal, unreasoned attack. Just as I was. It wasn’t your fault, just as this scar on my arm is not my fault.”

She released him, turning back to face the mirror. She pulled her robe closed over her breasts, hugging her arms around herself.

He watched her face in the mirror. The fight had left her again.

She returned his look. “Dash, I know you don’t believe me. But the same person who scarred your beautiful face did this to my arm. Lily. I don’t know why, except she must be very ill. We need to help her. We can’t do that if we’re busy running away. Because that’s what you’re doing, Dash. What
we
are doing. We’re running from the truth. Both of us.” She hung her head, covering her face with her hands.

Dash moved against her back once more, wrapping his arms around her, rocking her, swaying with her. He rubbed his cheek against the top of her head, her hair silky against the ragged scar.

“Go ahead, Jessa mine. Cry. After the time you’ve had while here, you’ve earned every one of those tears.”

She shook her head. “But I hate crying,” she wailed from behind her hands.

He smothered his laugh. How like the contrary woman. “Come now. I know a good cure for tears.” He gathered her into his arms, carrying her back to the table. He kicked the overturned chair out of his way, then sat on the other, Jessa in his lap.

She sniffled, her head on his shoulder.

“I have it on very good authority—from Winston, no less—that it’s impossible to cry and swallow at the same time. Says he learned that little trick from his father, who was always breaking some lady’s heart. Here.” Dash handed Jessa her half-finished glass of wine. “Drink up. See if it works.”

Jessa took the glass from his hand and sipped. She continued to sniff until, after a few more sips, she relaxed against him. She shifted in his lap, reminding his cock once more that it laid against the lush bottom of a beautiful woman.

“Stop wiggling, Jessa, or neither of us will get the rest we need tonight.”

She looked up at him through her thick dark lashes.

“I don’t want to rest tonight. I want to talk. I want you to tell me why you smashed up all the mirrors. I want you to tell me why Lily did that to you.”

He drew breath to launch a protest, but Jessa twisted in his lap, wrapping her arms around him. The tracks of tears marred her cheeks, but her eyes were dry.

“Don’t you see?” she said. “How can I protect myself—help you protect Holly—if I don’t know what I’m up against? You’ve banished almost every remnant of Lily. All that’s left is a portrait of her, and even that is marred beyond repair. But she’s still here, Dash. As if she’d somehow seeped into the very walls, echoing in the stones. I hear her, late at night. So do you. You can’t let her go. All that’s left of her is the echo. And Holly. Holly is still here, trapped with you in the past.” She shook her head, forestalling his words. “I know you wish only to protect her, but you’re smothering her. Holly is a Palmer, Dash, one of the ‘posies’. And like any other flower, she needs air and light. Sunshine. She will not bloom in the darkness here in Tremayne Hall. You can’t protect Holly if you are still so haunted by Lily.” She nibbled her lips again.

Those plump red lips.

Dash captured them with his own. They tasted of sweet, rich wine. His manhood stirred, but he meant this kiss for comfort, not passion. He was in control. He’d not frighten or endanger her any further.

Danger. Jessa was in danger. She was right. She couldn’t defend herself against an enemy she didn’t understand. He ended the kiss with a sigh. “All right, honey, I’ll try to explain. Not that I believe for one minute my late wife is the source of all these accidents”

Jessa stiffened, ready to argue, but he tucked her head against his shoulder, stroking her hair. “Just listen. Then you may ask all those questions. Argue with me as much as you want. But first, let’s get more comfortable. This chair is hard and I’m in need of something soft. Give me a moment to shift some things about.” He stood, his arms still wrapped around Jessa, then turned to sit her back down in the chair.

With economical motions, he shifted the table to the side, shoved the settee back into it’s place in front of the fire, then scooped Jessa up, depositing her on the cushions. He poked the fire higher while she settled. He turned, arrested at the sight that met his eyes.

Jessa, her red flannel robe gaping open again, sat curled into the corner of the gold velvet of the settee, watching him. Her fall of gold hair, now dry, gleamed. Red and gold. Heat. Fire. The sight ignited another fire, pulsing in his cock.

Only her green eyes lent any coolness. He focused on them. He needed coolness now, not heat. He wrapped his robe tighter. Jessa wanted answers, not sex. For now at least, he’d give her what she wanted.

He needed time to regain control over his body. He refilled their wine glasses, then handed one to her, settling beside her. It was a good thing she was so small—his large frame took up more than his fair share of the space.

Her stillness wrapped around him, enveloping him in peace. Acceptance. The only sounds were the crackle of the fire, the occasional burst of sparks as a log shifted. She waited, quiet. She had the gift of patience, a gift he’d had from no other woman in his life.

Jessa accepted him, and his ravaged face. No judgment. No fear. He shook his head, unable to believe it. He relaxed against the cushions.

“You asked about my scar.”

She sipped her wine, then nodded.

“You already know Lily caused this—” Damn. This would not be easy. “You told me once about Lily’s temper. How she came after you with scissors and sliced up Luther’s cravats when she was thwarted. She did that when she was quite young. As she grew older, those impulses—her wild temper—grew worse.” How to explain the madness permeating Lily’s soul to this gentle woman who watched him over the rim of her glass?

“Was she like that when you were courting her? Did you see no hint of her temper then?”

Dash looked away, staring deep into the heart of the fire. Jessa was a perceptive woman. If he risked gazing into those trusting green eyes, she’d see he wasn’t being completely truthful with her. But at least some of the truth could be shared. She’d managed to find a chink in his armor. Gain a toehold in his heart. It was farther than anyone else had gotten in years. But he couldn’t trust her. Not with the one piece of information she could use to destroy him. He’d tell her everything else, but not that.

She needed to know. Perhaps it would serve as a warning to her, to not place too much faith in whoever it was impersonating Lily.

“Did you know Lily—with Marguerite’s connivance—forced me into a proposal?”

Jessa opened her mouth to speak, but Dash held up his hand to stop her.

“Me first. Then you can ask your questions.” He raked his hair back from his face. “I was in Brighton on business. While there, I attended the usual dinners, soirees, and entertainments. I wasn’t looking for a wife, but was at a point in my life that, if I happened upon a likely female, I wouldn’t have been averse to marrying. I met Lily at a dinner.”

He paused, remembering his first sight of the woman who’d cause him so much torment. “She was wearing something gold. All that fiery hair piled on top her head, with glittery combs. She was laughing that throaty seductive laugh of hers, the center of attention. There aren’t enough words to describe her. Scintillating. Luminous. Men gathered around her, drawn like moths to all the fire, the heat she exuded. I admit to being as captivated as the rest of them. Before long, there were picnics, strolls in the park—the usual courting rituals. I should have seen it then, but I was blinded by her beauty.”

He gazed into the distant past, struggling to recall those early, untainted memories, to dredge them up from under the layers of muck and madness that had overlain them in the later years. “More than beauty,” he said. “It was if she were Eve—raw, untouched, elemental woman. Some unnamable combination of sleek power and an almost holy purity. The heart of a Madonna with lips like a Magdalene.”

He closed his eyes, the dark memories crowding in. “I never witnessed any untoward behavior, but I began to hear tales over cigars and port with other men. Lily had a wild, reckless side. She loved to gallop her horse or engage in carriage races. She gambled. There were whispers of duels fought over her. One tale even said she attended a duel and laughed when her champion was injured. I admit it—the stories were entertaining as hell. But she wasn’t the kind of woman one married, and I made certain to never go too far with her. Not even a chaste kiss, no matter how she flung herself at me. When her mother was around, she played at being the demure, biddable woman, the perfect candidate for marriage. I knew better. The blinders were off. I had no intention of offering for her. I made damn sure she had no reason to believe I would.”

Dash took another swallow of wine. This next part wouldn’t be easy. So far, Jessa had listened in silence. He hoped she’d let him finish without interruption. “I stopped calling on Lily and began to court another young lady, Miss Janie Chapman. It devastated Lily. She came to my residence, begging me to forget Janie. She cried. Pleaded. Screamed. Demanded. At one point, she went so far as to throw a vase at my head. I was appalled. I told her never to return.” He ran his hands through his hair, his heart still aching at the thought of poor Janie.

“Janie was a sweet girl,” he said, “kind, gentle, well liked by everyone. That made it all the more shocking when they fished her body out of the river one night, drowned. A note in her room said only that she couldn’t go on. No one knew what she meant, but many eyes turned towards me.”

Dash swallowed the last of his wine. Tension rode his shoulders. He rose, retrieved the decanter of port, then returned to Jessa’s side. He refilled his glass before holding the bottle out to Jessa, a question in his eyes.

She shook her head. She nibbled her lips again, but she held her tongue. Dash picked up the thread of his tale.

“I didn’t love Janie—not that such an emotion is necessary to form a companionable  marriage. But she’d accepted my offer for her, and I thought we could make a good marriage. Her death came as a tremendous blow. People never said anything unkind to me, of course, but I could see the questions. The doubts in their eyes. What would make a gentle woman, newly engaged, feel so desperate that she felt she had no choice but to kill herself?” He scrubbed his hand over his face, rubbing the scar.