The Lass Wore Black (34 page)

Her eyes were flat and expressionless, but how could he have ever forgotten their color? A greenish blue, reminiscent of a sunset over the Grampians. His mind furnished a picture of her laughing, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

She wasn’t feeling joyful at the moment, however. Her hands clenched the veil in front of her. She was so still that she looked brittle.

He could almost feel her fear.

He approached the table and stood in front of her.

“Will you sit?” he asked. “Have some tea with me.”

She sat without comment.

He pulled out a chair, sitting in front of her. Gently, he placed his hands beneath her chin, turning her head one way and then another, the better to see her in the afternoon light from the windows.

“Would you like me to bring the examination lamp?” Sarah asked.

“No,” Catriona said.

“My patients normally don’t get to tell me what to do,” he said, turning her head to the left. He glanced at Sarah. “But I don’t think I need it.”

One long scar ran from the corner of her left eye nearly to her chin. Her skin had not knitted well, and the result was a thick red mass of tissue. In the middle of her cheek, the scar branched out like a tree of pain, stretching across her face in varying shades of pink. Over time the scars would fade in color, but they would forever be noticeable, stark reminders of how close she came to death.

The rest of her face was strangely untouched. She was two sides of a coin, beauty and its obverse.

He traced the path of one of the scars to where it ended above her ear.

“You were fortunate,” he said, sitting back.

She blinked at him several times. “Fortunate?”

He nodded. “The glass could have easily severed your ear. Or cut right through your eye. Do you have any difficulty in your vision there?”

“Some,” she admitted. “Sometimes it feels as if it tears too much.”

“That’s to be expected, I think. Any itching?”

She nodded once. A simple acquiescence to his question, and a reluctant one. Was she afraid that by acknowledging the damage to her face, she made it permanent?

He frowned at the worst of the scars, reaching out to trace the line of it with a gentle finger. “They didn’t do a good job sewing you together,” he said. “One day, perhaps, we’ll have the ability to go back and rectify mistakes.”

“They did the best they could,” she said, her tone mocking.

“They might have,” he said. “However, the best wasn’t good enough.”

“You’re a physician. No doubt you’re familiar with horrible sights.”

He nodded. “Although I wouldn’t categorize your face as a horrible sight,” he said. “A regrettable fact, but not an insurmountable one.”

“I doubt the rest of society would agree with you.”

She was probably correct.

“The world is prejudiced against a great many things,” he said. “The trick is to ignore what you can and endure the rest.”

“So says an extraordinarily handsome man.”

He felt a rush of warmth at her words.

Sarah pushed a cup toward him, and he nodded his thanks. When she added a plate of biscuits, he grinned at her.

She only shook her head at him, and he wondered if he was being chastised for his love of sweets or the fact that he wasn’t acting with his usual professional detachment.

“You’ve examined me,” she said, reaching for her veil. “Shall I hire you as my physician?”

“No,” he said, reaching out and staying her hand. “We’ve gone beyond that, don’t you think?”

Catriona frowned at him, but he didn’t release her hand.

He sat back and ate a biscuit, thoroughly pleased with the world for this moment in time. He was warm, he was being fed biscuits and tea, and Catriona was in his kitchen.

“Why did you set someone to watching me?”

His good mood abruptly vanished.

“How do you know about that?”

“Your watcher isn’t that subtle,” she said. “I am not one of your patients, Dr. Thorburn. I’m not someone you have to guard.”

“Do you refuse anyone the right to care for you?”

She looked surprised at the question.

He loved being able to see her expressions, to view those surprising eyes. If Sarah hadn’t been sitting at the table, he would have leaned closer and kissed her.

“Are you that solicitous of all your patients?”

“You’re not my patient,” he said, deciding that Sarah was going to have to hear the truth. “You’re my lover.”

He glanced up to see his housekeeper leaving the room. Had he shocked her? No doubt he was going to be interrogated later.

He leaned forward, placing both hands on the arm of the chair. He dragged Catriona’s chair closer, the legs making a loud screeching noise against the wood floor. Slowly, he framed her face with his hands. She didn’t pull away, merely sat there looking at him with her wide, beautiful eyes.

“You knew,” she said. “All this time, you knew.”

“About your scars?” He shook his head. “It’s your leg that concerns me more,” he said.

Before she could speak, he placed his lips on hers, a gentle, teasing kiss.

When he drew back, she blinked up at him.

“I’ve missed kissing you,” he said, tracing her bottom lip with a finger.

He wished he could explain to her what he felt, but he wasn’t a poet. Besides, he wasn’t certain he could put his emotions into words.

This room was changed by her sitting there. From this day forward, envisioning her in that chair in this exact spot, he would always smile. His house seemed a warmer place, too, simply because Catriona was here.

But it was more than a physical change. His life seemed to be enhanced by her presence in it. She warmed him from the inside out.

She made him smile.

He wanted to tell her about his patients, about his sorrow over Mrs. MacBain and the other patients in Old Town who refused to listen to his advice or whose health was compromised by their overuse of alcohol. There were so many things he wanted to talk to her about, and listen to her comments.

He lay his hand gently on her left knee.

“Have you used the liniment?”

She nodded.

“Does it always hurt?”

“It just aches,” she said. “I think winter makes it worse.”

He might battle death, and some of the time he won. He also battled life, wanting to heal every one of his patients, rid them of pain or discomfort or infirmity.

She wasn’t his patient, but he wanted even more for Catriona. He wanted her to be able to walk without limping. Or for pain to only be a faint memory, one she need not recall on a daily basis. Yet at this moment he felt singularly defeated, wishing there was something he could do to help her and knowing there probably wasn’t.

A minute passed, then another, and she was as quiet and still as a statue. The girl he remembered had flitted about like a butterfly.

She pushed back her chair and stood, before he could kiss her again.

“I must go,” she said softly. “I have duties to attend to.”

“Off with your aunt again?” he asked, standing now, too. She’d surprised and pleased him by her actions in Old Town.

“How did you know?” she asked, then answered her own question. “Your watcher.”

“Why did you start accompanying her?”

“I’ve grown tired of my own company,” she said, the truth shining in each of her words. “I find that I can pity myself for only so long. Either I have to change my life or end it.”

He reached out and grabbed her shoulders with both hands, giving her a shake.

“Don’t say things like that,” he said. “Don’t think things like that.”

She reached up and put her hands over his.

“You heal,” she said. “It’s your calling in life, Mark. What do you do when you can’t?”

“I keep trying.”

She smiled, as if she’d expected that answer.

“Some causes are worthless.”

He matched her smile. “Some aren’t. You aren’t.”

“You can’t heal me.”

“Maybe I’m the one who needs to be healed,” he said. “From you. Because of you. I’ve decided the only treatment is to be around you more than I have been. That way, I won’t miss you so much.”

Her eyes widened. “You shouldn’t say such things.”

“Marry me.”

She took a step back, away from him.

“Are you mad?”

“Possibly,” he said. “I know my life hasn’t been the same since I walked into your room.”

She blinked at him.

“Marry me.”

She shook her head.

He’d expected her to be obstinate, and she didn’t disappoint. He took a step closer, and she retreated.

He grinned, suddenly liking this chase. What she didn’t understand was that he had every intention of catching her.

B
efore he could say something that linked them further, a chain of words he couldn’t call back, she moved backward, away from him.

He couldn’t do this to her. He couldn’t push her past the boundaries she’d erected to protect herself.

He couldn’t say things like that to her.

Marry me.

She wanted to weep.

If he understood who she truly was, he’d leave her alone. She wasn’t good like he was. She definitely wasn’t selfless. She had, in her past, been grasping, greedy, and mean.

Even if she’d changed, what did it matter? She would never be a saint. Nor did she truly wish to be, a confession that should shame her.

“Is there no one else who has caught your eye?” she asked. “No one who would be more acceptable to marry? A society miss, perhaps?”

“There was,” he said. “Or perhaps it’s more correct to say that I caught her eye.”

She frowned at him. She was being perfectly serious, but he was smiling.

“What happened to her?”

“I decided that she wasn’t as interesting as someone else I knew.”

“Are you talking about me?”

Her heart began to beat too rapidly again. He needed to stop doing that to her. Surely it couldn’t be a healthy phenomenon.

“I am.”

“Well, you shouldn’t,” she said, suddenly annoyed.

What did he expect from her? That he would marry her out of pity? “Will you tell your man not to follow me?”

Instead of escorting her from the room, he walked toward her, one stalking step at a time. She backed up until there was nowhere else to go.

He braced himself with a hand on either side of her, leaning his head close. She could feel his breath against her forehead. He created a protective and warm bubble around her, whispering against her ear.

“What’s the matter, Catriona? Passion is only acceptable if it’s on your terms? Or if you instigate it?”

She could hardly breathe.

With one hand she grabbed his arm as he moved even closer, pressing against her, making her aware of every inch of his body.

“I seem to remember a time in my bedroom that wasn’t at my instigation.”

“No,” he said, nipping at her neck. “It wasn’t.”

She closed her eyes, sighing as he moved his lips over her jaw, then kissed her again. This time the kiss demanded her cooperation and her surrender.

She willed herself to feel nothing, but her body recognized him, heated for him, and her lips—traitorous lips—softened for his mouth.

The man kissed like a demon; who was she to refuse him?

His tongue slid between her lips, touched hers before retreating to tease her bottom lip.

Somehow, she reached up and gripped his shoulders with both hands, and when he moved, she wished she were naked instead of protected by innumerable layers of cloth.

Where had her resolve gone?

She’d missed him so much. Not simply his touch, but his smile, and that twinkle that came into his eyes when he was being outrageous and knew it. She’d missed his kiss, and his acerbic comments, and the way he dared her and challenged everything she knew to be right.

He had not flinched at her face. He hadn’t expressed his condolences once or made a hasty retreat from the sight of her. Instead, he’d examined her closely, separating the damage from the whole of her. To him, her scars had been nothing more than an afterthought, an accessory, a physical reminder of the accident but little more. Up until now, no man had been able to see her for the damage to her face. No man but Mark.

Now, he was kissing her as if he desired her. As if he wanted her as much as she wanted him.

Marry me
.

She pulled back, pressing her hands against his chest. They were both breathing hard and his heart was booming against her palm.

“Is it because you’re a physician?” she asked in a trembling voice. “Because you’re familiar with deformity?”

He dropped his hands from her waist.

“Deformity?”

She nodded, not looking up at him. Instead, she concentrated on his shirtfront.

“Catriona, you have to be the most infuriating woman I’ve ever known.”

She glanced up at him. He was frowning at her.

“Then you can’t possibly want to marry me.”

“Of course I do.”

“Am I one of your good works?” she asked.

He drew back. “Good works?”

She nodded. “A project to prove that you’re compassionate and kind.”

“Marrying you is supposed to prove my compassion?”

It was her turn to frown at the amusement in his voice.

“I am not being ridiculous.”

“Yes, you are,” he said.

“It was a perfectly valid question.”

“Then let me give you a perfectly valid answer,” he said. “No, you’re not a pity project.”

He kissed her again, and she came close to agreeing to marry him right then and there.

“No,” he said, drawing back.

“No what?” she asked, trying to come back to the present.

“I’m not going to stop Mr. MacLean from following you. It’s either him or me, and I doubt my patients would understand. Or you could accompany me on my calls.”

She shook her head, not taking him seriously.

“You would be a good companion, I think. You’d be good with patients, and you’ve a great deal of compassion for others.”

Was he talking about her?

She frowned at him.

He ran his finger down her nose, then tapped the end of it.

“Edeen liked you. Said you were bossy like Mrs. MacTavish but that you had as good a heart.”