The Devil Who Tamed Her (27 page)

T
HE PAIN WAS ALL-CONSUMING
. O
PHELIA
floated in and out of it. It seemed endless. She had no way of knowing how much time was passing. And she couldn’t seem to fight her way up to real consciousness. Each time she tried, she could hear voices, she just wasn’t sure if she was replying to them with other than gibberish, or if it was all just part of the ongoing nightmare she was mired in. But the more she tried to concentrate, the more she hurt, so she never tried for long.

“Don’t you dare give up, Phelia. Don’t even think about dying to avoid me. I won’t allow it. Wake up so I can tell you!”

She knew that voice well. He couldn’t tell she was awake? Why wouldn’t her eyes open so she could see him? Was she really in danger of dying?

Voices continued to drift in and out of her head, but it hurt so bad to try to concentrate on them, she gave up. Would she remember them when she did wake up? Why couldn’t she wake up?

“The wounds will heal but the scars will be permanent. I’m sorry.”

She didn’t know that voice. What scars? And why was a woman crying? The sound faded away.

“The doctor has suggested that you try to sleep through most of the pain. This will help, dear.”

She knew that voice. Her mother. And the warm liquid running down her throat was beginning to taste familiar. She was being drugged? No wonder she couldn’t seem to wake fully or get any words out. And once again, she passed into blissful oblivion.

It hurt when the bandages were changed. The side of her head, her cheek, her shoulder. It hurt enough to make her run away from it to the deep, dark nothingness again, so she never stayed conscious long enough to know just how many bandages were spread across her body. Her head hurt the worst. The dull throbbing never stopped. It continued even in her dreams, an endless reminder that something was dreadfully wrong with her. Did she really want to wake up to find out what that was?

“Stop crying. Dammit, Mary, you’re not helping with those tears. What’s a little scar or two. It’s not the bloody end of the world.”

She knew that voice too and wished it would go away. She didn’t mind her mother’s soft sobs. It was actually a soothing sound. She couldn’t manage any tears herself. Her mother was crying for her. She did mind her father’s grating voice though.

“Go away.”

Did she manage to say it aloud, or did she only think it? But she went away instead, back to her blissful nothingness that held the pain at bay.

The one time she did get her eyes open, it was to see she was in her own room. Her father was sitting in a chair by her bed. He was holding her hand to his cheek. His tears were wetting her fingers.

“Why are you crying?” she asked him. “Did I die?”

He glanced at her immediately, so she must have gotten the words out this time. His expression filled with delight. She didn’t think she’d ever seen Sherman Reid look happy like that before.

“No, angel, you’re going to be—”

Angel? An endearment from him? “Never mind,” she cut in. “I must be dreaming.” And she promptly drifted off again.

But her brief spans of consciousness started to get longer after that. The throbbing pain wasn’t continuous anymore, either. She actually had moments where she felt no pain—as long as she didn’t try to move.

And then she woke one morning and stayed awake. Sadie was flitting about the room as she usually did, adding wood to the fireplace, dusting the tables, the vanity, the…

Oh, God, they’d put a cover over her vanity mirror. The wound on her face was so grotesque? They were afraid for her to see it? In horror, she brought her hands to her face, but all she could feel was the cloth bandages. They seemed to be wrapped tightly around her entire head and across her cheeks and chin.

She was afraid to tear the bandages off, afraid she’d damage herself even more by doing so. Unable to feel them for herself, she started to ask Sadie how bad the scars were, but the words lodged in her throat. She was afraid to find out. And the tears started. She closed her eyes, hoping Sadie would leave without noticing.

The irony was incredible. All her life she’d hated the face she was born with, and now that it was deformed, all she could do was cry about it.

And she cried, for hours. She cried herself dry. By the time Sadie returned around noon, she was just lying there staring at the ceiling. She wasn’t exactly resigned to her deformity, but she knew there was nothing she could do about it. She’d get used to it. Somehow. She hated self-pity, especially her own.

“Thank God you’re awake and can eat now,” Sadie said when she came near enough to see that her eyes were open. “This broth we’ve been trickling down your throat isn’t enough to feed a rabbit! You were getting close to wasting away to nothing!”

Sadie said that too cheerfully for it to be true. “How long has it been?”

“Nigh a week now.”

“That long? Really?”

“You obviously needed the rest, so don’t be fretting that. How is your head?”

“Which part of it?” Ophelia asked drily. “It’s been one big throb.”

“You took a bad bump on the side of your head. That wound bled the most. The doctor had the nerve to suggest you might not wake up from it. Your papa told him to get the hell out and sent for a different doctor.”

“He did?”

“Oh, yes. He was furious with the fellow. The new chap was more optimistic and rightly so. Look at you! Now that you’re awake, you’re going to be just fine. And I’ll be taking this broth back to the kitchen for something more substantial for you!”

“Poached fish,” Ophelia said, suddenly filled with the most horrible dread.

“Poached fish it will be,” Sadie said, still sounding overly cheerful. “Even if I have to run to market myself to fetch a fresh one.”

Sadie didn’t return anytime soon. She must actually have gone to market. But before she left, she’d let the household know that Ophelia was awake. Her father was the next to arrive, the one person who
could
get her mind off the possibility that she’d lost her baby.

She wasn’t his pretty bauble anymore, was she? Had she really woken during her nightmare to see him crying? If so, that was no doubt why.

“You’re finally coming out of it?” he asked. “I had to see for myself before I go wake your mother to give her the good news. She’s been sitting up with you most every night, so she’s still abed.”

“Did I really need so much bandaging about my head?” she asked as he pulled up the chair next to her bed and sat down.

“Well, yes, but it was twofold. Some of it was to hold down the cold compresses your mother insisted on for your cheek, which was quite swollen. But most of it is to keep the bandage on tight for that lump on your head. The alternative would have been to stitch your cut there and shave your hair back for it, and your mother had a fit about you losing even one strand of hair. So you were just bandaged up more tightly around that area, and as it happens, the cut did seal well enough without stitches. Those bandages can probably be removed when the doctor comes round later today.”

“How many stitches did I receive—elsewhere?”

He sighed. “A few.”

It was a lie. He should practice not blushing when he lies, she thought. And actually, she didn’t really want to know. She’d see for herself eventually—when she got up the nerve to pull that cover off her vanity mirror.

He still seemed quite uncomfortable as he continued, “I never doubted for a minute that you would recover, but—it could have been much worse, and coming close to losing you like that has given me some insight that I’m not proud of. I am not a demonstrative man. I’m set in my ways, I’m gruff, I’m—”

She cut in, “You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know, Papa, but why are you mentioning it?”

“It occurred to me that, well, that is to say…bloody hell,” he ended in frustration.

“What? Just say it.”

He sighed again. He even took her hand in his and held it lightly, staring down at it. “You and I fought so much over the years, it became a habit. And once habits form, we lose sight of other things. It occurred to me that you might not think that I love you. There, I’ve said it. I do love you, you know.”

He glanced up to see her reaction. She stared at him incredulously. She didn’t really know what to say or if she could even say anything with the lump that was rising in her throat. Was that moisture gathering in her eyes?

“I’m going to tell you something that your mother doesn’t even know,” he continued. “I didn’t have an easy childhood. The schools I was sent to were the best, filled with the elite upper crust. I could have wished they weren’t. Boys can be cruel. It was rubbed in my face constantly that I wasn’t in their league. Can you believe that? An earl’s son, not in their league.”

He appeared to be looking back, caught up in old, unpleasant memories. Amazingly, she vaguely understood why he was telling her this.

“You weren’t on the street looking in, Papa. Your title has always been as good as any.”

“I know. I even came to suspect it was mere jealousy, because my family was quite rich, while many of those boys with loftier titles weren’t. But that made no difference to the driving goal I had to prove that I was as good as they were, to fit in, as it were. And that drive never left me, even when I had no way to accomplish that goal—until you were born, and you grew prettier and prettier every year.
You
were my proof. So, yes, I showed you off—too much. The amazement you caused, the claps on the back, the congratulations, I couldn’t get enough of it. It made up for all those years that I felt inferior. But I realize now how selfish it was of me, that I pushed you into social situations you weren’t ready for. I was just so damn proud of you, Pheli.”

“You weren’t proud of me, Papa,” she said in a small voice. “You were proud of yourself for siring me. There is no comparison of the two.”

He bowed his head. “You’re right. It took almost losing you for me to open my eyes and see just how many regrets I really have where you’re concerned. Your mother always tried to tell me. It was the only time she and I ever argued. I just never listened. I was too caught up in that misplaced pride. I wish I could do it all over. I know I can’t. But it’s not too late to correct my most recent blunder.”

“What do you mean?”

“I know you aren’t happy with this marriage I forced on you.”

“You didn’t force that, Papa.”

“Of course I did. I ordered you to marry Locke. I made sure everyone expected it to happen.”

She gave him a sad smile. “When did I ever follow your orders without scheming to do just the opposite? It was my temper that pushed Rafe into dragging us to the altar. It was nothing you did.”

He cleared his throat with a slightly raised brow. “Be that as it may, you don’t need to remain in this marriage. Your husband hasn’t exactly behaved as a husband should, so I don’t believe you’ll have any difficulty in getting it annulled with my help.”

She was amazed. “You’d give up a dukedom in the family without a fight?”

“Pheli, I’ve come to the realization that I want
you
to be happy. The title wasn’t just for me, you know. Your mother and I do talk about you without arguing occasionally. I know that you aspired to be like her but on a higher level, that you hoped to be the grandest hostess in all of London. The loftier title would have helped you in that goal.”

She sighed. How little importance that held for her now.
Right
now, all she wanted was for poached fish to still make her nauseous.

She could feel those tears coming on again and fought to keep them back. “You’re probably right. Rafe and I just weren’t meant to be. He won’t fight an annulment. But—” She started to say she wasn’t sure if one was possible now. That would tell her father that she and Rafe had been intimate, and she’d rather not do that when she would know soon enough whether she was still with child. In fact, if she’d miscarried, the doctor might already have told her parents and they were just protecting her from the sad truth.

She sighed, adding, “Thank you for making the offer. Let me think about it before we decide.”

“Of course. Recover first. When you’re feeling up to scratch will be soon enough to give it some thought.”

He hugged her before he left. A real hug. Gently, afraid she might break, but a
real
hug.

She cried the moment the door closed behind him. After all these years, to feel reconciled with her father, to feel as if she finally had a father, a real one, one who cared. That was going to take some getting used to.

But then the poached fish arrived and she cried much, much harder because she didn’t feel nauseous. There really would be nothing to prevent her from putting Rafe out of her life with an annulment. Oh, God, the scars she would have to live with were nothing in comparison to losing her baby—and Rafe with it.

“O
NLY A LITTLE DENTED
,”
THE
doctor said as he held Ophelia’s chin and studied her face with all the bandages removed from it. Her immediate blanch had him quickly amending, “Good God, girl, I was joking.” Then he sighed. “My wife nags me constantly about my bedside manner. I should listen to her. You’re going to be just fine. The scars will fade. Before you know it, you won’t even notice them.”

He was being kind. He was a nice man. They should have found him sooner to serve as their family doctor, not that anyone in the family got sick very often. And having upset her, he said they should wait a few more days before they removed the bandages from the rest of her body.

Mary, who was standing on the other side of her bed, assured her, “The doctor is right, you know. We were so worried about that crushed cheekbone, but it’s such a little imperfection, barely noticeable. When I think how much worse it could have been…but goodness, your dimples are deeper!”

Her mother wasn’t helping. Dimples didn’t sit at the top of a cheekbone. “Adds character if you ask me,” Sadie remarked from the foot of the bed. “You’re still the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, so don’t give it another thought, dear.”

They continued to try to cheer her up. But nothing could. Her perfect face was no longer perfect.

She left her bed to dress as soon as Mary escorted the doctor out of the room. “He didn’t say you could get up and gallivant about,” Sadie objected.

“He didn’t say I couldn’t either. But I’m not leaving the room, I’m just leaving the damned bed. A robe will do.”

Her wounds didn’t hurt as long as she didn’t stretch the skin around them. The pain was inside her now, and all she’d been doing in that bed was crying. She’d had enough of that.

Sadie left her alone with a few more admonishments to continue resting. She stood for a long while in front of her fireplace, just staring at the fire. The bed really had nothing to do with her tears. She could still feel them just below the surface, ready to well up on her if she even got close to thinking about the things that were tearing at her heart. So she tried not to think of anything. She really tried…

“Got tired of lazing about in bed, did you?”

She swung about—and winced. She couldn’t move quickly like that yet. Rafe stood in her open doorway, leaning against the frame, his hands in his pockets. Her eyes devoured him. God, it was good to see him. But then she remembered her face and quickly turned back toward the fire. And winced again.

“Who let you in?”

“The chap who usually opens the door.” He sounded too jaunty for her present mood.

“Why are you here? I don’t want to fight with you anymore. Go away.”

“We’re not fighting. And I’m not leaving.” He shut the door behind him, loudly, to reinforce that statement.

She didn’t want to deal with him yet. She could feel a panic coming on. If she cried in front of him, she’d never forgive herself. And she couldn’t bear for him to see her disfigured face.

“What are you
doing
here?” she repeated, her tone rising.

“Where else would I be but at my wife’s bedside in her hour of need.”

“What rubbish.”

“No, really. I’ve been here quite often, you know. Every day actually. Your father was quite rude not to offer me a room, I spent so much time here.”

She didn’t believe a word of it. And the panic was getting worse. She kept her face averted from him. If she detected even a little pity…

She couldn’t face him without knowing what he would see when he looked at her. She went over to her vanity and yanked the cover off the mirror, then stared in surprise. The mirror wasn’t there, just the empty frame that had held it. The dent on her face was that bad then? Enough to remove the mirror from her room?

“I was in a rage because I couldn’t do anything to help you,” Rafe said from across the room. “I broke your bloody mirror. Sorry. I just didn’t want you to catch sight of yourself looking like a mummy, they had you so wrapped up. The sight frightened me enough, I knew it would surely terrify you.”

She could hear the smile in his voice. Making a joke about her condition? That was so unkind.

Then softly, right behind her: “Does it still hurt?”

God, yes, it hurt, deep inside it hurt, and all she wanted to do was turn into his arms and cry her heart out. But she couldn’t do that. He might be her husband, but he wasn’t hers. She claimed no part of his heart as he did hers. But he wasn’t going to know. She wasn’t going to saddle him with a deformed wife. Her father had given her the means to see to that. And she should make it easy for him to accept that and be glad of such an easy solution. She could do that by continuing the charade.

“I’ll be fine. You probably feel this is just desserts, the ice queen brought down to earth. But don’t think for a moment that I won’t overcome this.”

“What are you talking about?”

“My deformed face!”

He suddenly grabbed her arm, pulled her out of her room and down the corridor, where he stopped to poke his head into every room he passed until he found a mirror. And he shoved her in front of it. She closed her eyes. She couldn’t bear it.

But he was persistent. “You see? The top layer of skin was scraped off your cheek a bit on top of the bruise, but you lose that much skin yourself after a few face scrubbings. The redness will be gone in another week, the bruise probably before that. And I have a feeling the little dent that will be left behind is going to enhance your beauty. Leave it to you to figure out a way to make yourself even more pretty.”

The teasing in his tone…her eyes flew open to stare at her face. He wasn’t lying. There was a red patch there, which alarmed her at first glance, but it wasn’t even deep enough to form a scab. An ugly bruise still covered most of her cheek. And under it all, high on her cheekbone, was an indentation. She leaned closer to the mirror to inspect the damage. It was an obvious imperfection, she acknowledged as she swallowed back tears, but it wasn’t nearly as deep as she’d feared. People would notice it, but it was a small price to pay for coming away from that accident alive.

“Scars were mentioned,” she said. “Where are they?”

“You didn’t see for yourself, even without a mirror?”

“No, I don’t make a habit of looking at my naked body.”

“You should. It’s absolutely gorgeous.”

She turned about to face him. “That isn’t funny.”

He cupped her face in his hands. “Phelia, I was here when you were sewn up. You’ll have a small scar on your shoulder, another on your side, and one on your hip, all of which will fade in time. By the grace of God, not a single bone was broken, just a severe amount of bruises that are almost gone. The only wound that worried us was the one to your head, but that’s mending as well, I’m told.”

It took her a moment to assimilate it all. Half of her tears had been for nothing? But not the other half.

She pushed away from him and headed back to her room. He followed her. He even closed the door again. Why didn’t he go away? She should tell him about the annulment.
That
would send him away—happy.

She tried to formulate the words in her mind, but he was too much of a distraction. Gazing at her tenderly. Oh, God!

“It wasn’t really a bet that I accepted, it was the challenge,” he began.

“Don’t!”

“You’re going to hear this if I have to tie you down. Duncan was positive you’d never change. I disagreed with that notion. Anyone can change, even you, was my contention. And you did. Beautifully. And since you obviously weren’t a very happy woman—happy women don’t stir up trouble everywhere they go—I wanted to change that too. I didn’t collect on that wager. Helping you was a sincere effort to
help
you.”

“Your motives were a lie!”

“No, they weren’t, I just failed to mention what started them.”

“Ah, yes, you’re good at failing to mention something and thinking that isn’t lying, aren’t you?”

“I could say the same thing about you. Or are you going to still try and maintain you started those rumors about us, when I know now that you didn’t.”

“I would have!”

He laughed. “No, you wouldn’t have, Phelia. Give it up. You know you’re not that woman anymore. And you should be grateful for that bet, not mad about it. It helped us to find each other.”

She went very still. Was he implying what it sounded like? It couldn’t be, and yet, the look in his eyes, filled with such warmth, confirmed it.

Her breathless silence gave him the opportunity to pull her close to him. “There’s something else I failed to mention that I should have, long before now.”

She was almost afraid to ask. “What?”

“I love you,” he said with poignant tenderness. “I love every part of you. I’m even fond of your temper, so don’t feel you have to hide that from me—all the time. I love how you look. I love how you feel. I love how you’ve found the courage to be you.”

Telling her every single thing she wanted to hear. God, she wasn’t still dreaming, was she? Making this up in her mind because it’s what she’d wanted so badly?

“You didn’t want to marry. I forced your hand with my damn temper.”

He was shaking his head at her. “Do you really think you could goad me into something like that if I didn’t want to marry you?”

“Then why did you bring me back to my parents’ home that night?”

“Because I
was
angry. You know how to pull my strings very well.”

He was smiling as he said it. She only blushed a little.

“That’s why you wasted money on a home for me? It was just your anger?”

“And yours. It seemed like a good, temporary measure. But buying property is never a waste. It’s actually a large house, bigger than mine. And it has a ballroom.”

He remembered her old goal? That was so sweet, but those old goals seemed so trivial now when she was filled with such joy. She needed nothing other than his love to complete her.

“Mainly,” he continued, “it was because I know how much you wanted to be out from under your father’s thumb, and since you weren’t ready to live with me yet—”

“I get the idea,” she cut in softly.

“Do you? Are you sure we don’t have anything else to fight about?”

She grinned. “I don’t think so.”

“Then I’m taking you home, where I should have taken you to begin with. My home, where you belong.”