“Don’t you want me to be happy?”
“Of course I do.”
He spread her frock over the table, carefully layering it between pressing cloths. The muscles of his left arm bunched and flexed as he skimmed the hot iron over fabric, working with care and confidence. She never could have dreamed how arousing this would be—the sight of a massive, shirtless man pressing a gown. All she could think of was those hands roving over her body, warming and smoothing her own frayed edges.
“Katie, I want you to have everything you’re entitled to—wealth, connections, Society. The family you always dreamed of finding. It’s all yours now, and I’ll be damned if I’ll ruin that for you.” He put the iron aside. “You can’t be with someone like me. Look at me. That cousin of yours wouldn’t hire me on as a footman.”
If Thorne was this reluctant already, she wasn’t about to tell him the truth of her inheritance. Not yet. He wouldn’t see it as a convenience, only as one more factor widening the gulf he perceived between them.
Which wasn’t a gulf at all. All that separated them was an imaginary line. But someone must take the first step across it, and Kate knew it would have to be her.
“This is about us, Samuel. No one else.” She drew the blanket about her shoulders and rose to her feet. His stubbornness was a thing to be conquered, and she felt her courage rising. “I’m just me. Just Katie. Your Katie, as you called me once. I know you have feelings for me.”
He set the iron down, agitated. “I’ve told you, time and again, it’s only—”
“Only desire. Yes, I know you’ve told me that. And I know you’re lying to me. Your feelings go much deeper than lust.”
“I feel nothing.” His nostrils flared. He beat his fist against his chest. “Nothing. Do you understand me?”
“I know that’s not tr—”
“Look. These letters.” He pointed to the B.C. marked on the left side of his torso. “Do you know how they make these marks?”
She shook her head no.
“They take a board, about so big.” He measured with his hands. “And on it are protruding nails, forming the shapes of the letters. They press the points of those nails to your skin, and then they give the board a smart whack. With a fist, perhaps. Or maybe a mallet.”
Kate winced. She stepped forward, but he held her off with an open hand.
“And then, when they’ve made all those tiny punctures, they take black powder—you know enough about weaponry to know that it’s corrosive stuff—and rub it in the wounds to make the mark.”
“That must have been torture.”
“I didn’t feel a thing. Just like I didn’t feel these.”
He turned, showing her his back. Kate’s stomach turned as she viewed the lattice of twisted, branching scars that covered his skin.
“Floggings,” he said. “A hundred lashes, for my countless offenses. They laid open my flesh to the muscle, and I swear to you, I didn’t feel a stroke. Because I’d learned how to deaden myself. To pain, to sorrow, to sentiment. To everything.”
Tears stung at the corners of her eyes. She couldn’t decide whether he deliberately told her falsehoods or had convinced himself of these untruths, but she hated hearing him speak this way.
This man felt, and he felt deeply.
“Samuel . . .”
“No. I know what you’re thinking. Today, you’ve remembered some boy you once knew. He was fond of you and kind to you, and he did you a good turn, once. That boy doesn’t exist anymore. The man I am . . . well, you can read for yourself.” He pointed out the marks on his skin, one by one. “Thief. Prisoner. Drunken soldier. Bad character, through and through. I went dead inside long ago. And I feel nothing now.”
She approached him slowly, in small increments, just as she would approach a cornered wild animal she didn’t want to frighten away.
“Do you feel this?” She tilted her head and leaned in to kiss his neck. The scent of him made her pulse with longing.
“Katie . . .”
“What of this?” She stretched to kiss his cheek, allowing her lips to linger on the hard edge of his jaw. “Or—”
He seized her by the arms, pushing her back. “Stop.”
She dropped her gaze to his chest, surveying all the marks and scars he’d collected since they parted in her childhood—all of them incurred, in part, for her. The enormity of what those marks represented eclipsed any fear or sorrow she’d ever known. She could scarcely comprehend the magnitude of his suffering, but she forced her mind to stretch, to try. He’d sacrificed everything, including the only home he ever had. He’d bought her a bright, shiny future at the cost of his own freedom.
How could she not love him? How could he deny loving her?