Page 36 of The Mistletoe Dare

He huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “I do. Believe me. You’re a brave girl.”

“No, just stubborn,” she replied with a sigh.

“That too.”

She turned to look at him. Despite the scars, he had a noble profile, a strong Roman nose. He looked like a man out of time. Beauty and refinement, manners, and the perfect outward appearance counted now, far too much. In centuries past, Rochford would have been revered for his size, for his strength in battle, and his uncompromising character. Or else, she could easily imagine him as a warrior king of the ancient Britons, and she had a sudden vision of his powerful body clad in animal skins and painted with blue woad, as described by Caesar in De bello gallico. Heat swept over her, and she blurted out a question to cover her confusion. “What’s Cumbria like? That’s where Mulcaster Castle is, I think?”

He nodded. “It’s wild. Remote and harsh and beautiful. You’d recognise it, perhaps.”

“Like Scotland?”

“Somewhat. It was Scottish once upon a time, remember.”

She nodded, and then dared to voice the question she really wanted to ask. “Who—”

“Don’t,” he said, cutting her off. Some instinct must have told him this enquiry was more personal, but Georgie had not been exaggerating her stubborn streak. She waited a moment and tried a different tack.

“Is your mother alive still? I know you said your father died when you were seven.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, but answered reluctantly. “She is.”

Georgie chewed at her lip, trying to sit quietly in the hope he might speak to her. He gave a heavy sigh and muttered an oath.

“My father was a madman. Is that what you wished to hear?” he demanded. “It’s not like there isn’t gossip enough if you care to find it.”

She turned to stare at him, wide-eyed. “Rochford, I-I do not wish to pry secrets from you for my own entertainment, I—”

He waved this away irritably, but his left hand remained in her lap still. She stroked his thumb with her own, hoping he might carry on.

“I know you’re not prying for its own sake,” he said grudgingly. “You’ve a kind heart. Anyone can see that. You see a problem and wish to fix it, or to mend something broken, which is why you must have a care. Someone will take advantage of you if you don’t, and there are some things you can’t fix with a recipe for tea or kind words.”

“That’s not fair,” she objected, stung. “You make me sound like a simpleton.”

She withdrew her hand, but Rochford’s grip tightened. He laced their fingers together, and Georgie’s breath caught.

“It was my father did this,” he said, his right hand tracing the ragged scar on his cheek. “He attacked me with a whip. Knocked me out cold after the second blow, which was a blessing. He had syphilis and by the end he was a fright to look at, with his nose all gone, and quite insane. I was afraid of him, but he was my father and I loved him anyway, or tried to. The staff did their best to keep me from him, but I always found a way to be near him. That was a mistake, for he was paranoid, and he’d have violent episodes, thinking everyone was trying to murder him. Even his six-year-old son.”

Georgie watched in appalled silence as he shrugged his big shoulders.

“Oh, Rochford,” she said, feeling a tear slip down her cheek.

He glanced at her and scowled. “Save your tears, Georgina. Some monsters can’t be saved. Don’t you see? You can care all you like, and it won’t make a scrap of difference. You’ll only get hurt trying.”

She stared at him in horror. “You cannot think—Rochford, he was mad and… Oh, you idiot man. You’re not a monster. You’re just a man with scars.”

He released her hand abruptly and got to his feet. “We’d best go back before we’re missed.”

Georgie couldn’t bear it. His tone was emotionless, perfectly cool, and she was in pieces, wanting to weep for him and everything he’d been through. In Georgie’s family, there was an abundance of hugging and affection. Just as the boys rough and tumbled like puppies, they were easy with themselves and each other, quick to give a hug if they’d caused offence or noticed she was sad. The way Rochford held himself so stiffly, so apart from everyone else, she wondered when the last time was anyone had touched him with affection. Suddenly, she could not bear it for another moment. She ran to him and flung her arms about his waist, laying her head on his chest and holding on tight.

“What—” He jolted in shock, his arms outstretched as if he didn’t know what to do with her. Perhaps he’d try to unhook her like he had the kittens. “What are you doing?” he demanded in outrage.

“Hugging you,” she said, snivelling a little. “I’m sorry. Please don’t tell me to stop.”

“Why, for the love of God?” He sounded sincerely bewildered, which only made her hug him tighter.

“Because I’ve met no one in all my life who needs a hug more than you do.”

He groaned, but his tone softened. “Stop acting like a damned mad woman, you daft creature.”