Page 73 of Souvenir Heart

Because he had the face and body that haunted her dreams? Because he stirred her to fury, then surprised her with unexpected gentleness? Or simply because after everything she’d been through, he made her feel a range of emotions, none of which included mind-numbing terror or dumb resignation?

He set a lantern down on a small table. Surveyed the scattered towels, basin, pitcher, wash tub, and trunk, and began rearranging them with brisk efficiency.

Like a servant, she told herself, as silence stretched between them.

She surveyed Marcus’s silken hair, damp and loosely tied back. Then her eyes drifted from his hair to his broad shoulders and down to his narrow waist. He was wearing a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up, a striped waistcoat and buff-colored breeches. She watched the play of muscles in his back and thighs as he bent down to empty the dirty water in the wash tub into the empty water can.

The bees in her chest buzzed louder.

He wrapped the damp towels in a bundle, poured the dirty water into the empty water can, refilled the pitcher and set it and the small basin on the table. Picking up the square of soap Andre had given her, he scowled.

“Is there something wrong with the soap?” she said, breaking the silence. “Do you dislike the scent of honeysuckle?”

“There’s nothing wrong with the scent.” He replied, hastily setting the square down. He bent to move the wash tub. Placed it against the wall. Then picked up the chair she’d noticed earlier, but had been too exhausted to try and move, and set it beside the table.

“Sit,” he commanded, pointing at the chair.

Marguerite slipped from the edge of the bed to the chair.

He studied her for several long moments, as if she were a line of soldiers on a battlefield.

“Have you done this before?” she asked.

“No.”

Of course he hadn’t. He was no more a servant than a thoroughbred was a cart horse.

“Will that,” she motioned at his bandaged hand, “be a problem?”

“It’s nothing. A scratch,” he said dismissively. “Right.” Stepping forward, he lifted up the mass of her hair and began to work. At first, his touch was rough, scrubbing and pulling so hard that several times she winced. But as he continued, alternating soap and water, drawing his fingers through her tangled tresses, his touch became gentler. He massaged her scalp and neck in soothing circles, and his fingers teased strands away from her forehead and neck, drawing them down her back in long, easy strokes.

She shivered, imagining what it would be like to have those fingers on other, more sensitive parts of her body.

“Are you still feeling unwell?”

She shook her head.

He’d rolled up his sleeves, and the lantern light glinted on the feathering of hair on his forearms, casting the lines of muscle and bone into shadow. There was a scar across his right forearm, a wicked slashing line. She lifted a hand to trace it, then, abruptly aware of what she was doing, drew it back.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked. “I know I was a bit rough earlier. But there were so many knots.”

“No. It feels good.” Unbelievably good. Marguerite shifted in her chair. The quiet and his touch felt so intimate that touching him back seemed the most natural thing to do. “I was just…” she gestured towards his arm, “that scar…how did you come by it?”

“Failed to dodge a blade.”

She winced in sympathetic pain. “It must have been a very large blade.”

“A cavalry saber. Do you find it ugly?” Clearly assuming that she did, he continued. “I consider it a valuable reminder to never let my guard down. Mistrust, as you’ve undoubtedly learned from your recent experiences, is the best defense.”

Victorine’s betrayal had been shocking, painful, but she’d been at fault, too. Marguerite turned her head to look at him. “That must be exhausting.”

His hands stilled in her hair, and his eyes met hers, one skeptical brow lifting.

“Never placing your trust in anyone,” she said, “always holding people at an arm’s length.”

“Better lonely than betrayed.”

Marguerite thought of her loveless marriage and shook her head, which reminded her that his fingers were still tangled in the strands of her hair. “Victorine wasn’t a betrayal of trust so much as an error in…” she hesitated, searching for the right word, “assumption. I can’t say that I ever trusted her. I simply assumed I knew her. Perhaps, if I’d taken the time to get to know her better…”