Her Reluctant Groom (Groom Series, BOOK 2) Page 16

  “Yes, I know.” The bitterness in his voice was unmistakable.

  “Then what's the problem? They're on your face, too, but you don't go around insisting on wearing a mask. What's the difference?”

  His eyes grew hard. “Emma, leave it alone.”

  She shook her head. “I don't understand you. I love you, Marcus. I always have. Before your scars and after. They mean nothing to me. Why can't you accept that?”

  “I have accepted them,” he countered, rolling off her and onto his side of the bed.

  “I wasn't talking about your scars. I was talking about my love.”

  “I've accepted that, too.” He glanced away as he said it, and she couldn't be sure, but she thought she picked up on a trace of sadness in his tone. “But that does nothing to change the way I feel about...” He shrugged as if that were a sufficient way to finish the sentence.

  Trying not to groan in aggravation, she shook her head against the pillow and stared up at the embroidered flowers in the top of the canopy.

  Why did he have to be so difficult? She knew the scars were there and didn't find them repulsive the way most would. She loved him, so why should he have insecurities around her?

  She rolled on her side, ready to demand some answers from him when she noticed the soft set of his slightly unhinged jaw and heard his soft snores.

  Refusing to act like Louise would in this situation by waking him up to argue, she rolled over onto her back and once again studied the needlework on the canopy. Tomorrow was a new day. She'd get her answers then. Even if it meant she had to take a few minutes to consult with Lady Bird's naughty book to determine a sneaky way to have him at her command, she would.

  Chapter 15

  Marcus was relieved that Emma had believed his act. There was no way he could sleep after everything that had just happened between them, not to mention the horrific pain in his leg.

  To Emma it seemed immaterial for him to remove his shirt. She was right. He had nothing to hide. She knew as well as anyone about the scars that covered his arms, chest, stomach, and back. The scars themselves weren't the real reason he had refused to remove his shirt and let her touch him. They only served to remind him once again of what he could never have: Emma. She may say she didn’t even see the physical scars that covered the upper half of his body, but she’d care about the rest. That was why the plan he’d developed last night had to work.

  He grabbed one of the two pillows under his head and shoved it under his thigh for support. His leg hadn't hurt this badly since right after his accident. He'd certainly been taxing himself too much. Starting tomorrow he'd stay off his leg more, and in the process, put more distance between Emma and himself. Getting too attached to her or allowing her feelings for him to continue would only lead to more heartbreak in the end. He wouldn't avoid her altogether; that would be too obvious. But he'd keep his hands and lips to himself from now on.

  Shutting his eyes, Marcus counted forward to one hundred, then backward to one twice before finally losing track of where he was and falling asleep, his hand loosely holding hers.

  Emma's stirring woke Marcus just before dawn. Blinking his eyes to get accustomed to his surroundings, he realized Emma was once again lying on his chest and his arms were wrapped tightly around her. He loved the way she felt against him. Since she was asleep, he could fully enjoy her closeness one last time, so he didn't push her away.

  “Marcus,” she whispered against his chest some time later.

  “Hmm?”

  She shifted against him to make herself more comfortable, making his discomfort increase tenfold. “I was wondering if you'd take me horseback riding this morning before the girls get up.”

  His heart thudded in his chest. Why did she want to go horseback riding with him? Did she think him getting on a horse would magically make him forget his past and let go of any ill feelings she assumed he had because of his scars. Pushing his thoughts aside, he said, “Don't you have to see to getting the girls up and ready?”

  “No.” She rolled off of him and propped her head up on her hand. “Molly's been attending to their needs before breakfast and after dinner.”

  The smile on her face made the feeling of loss she'd created when she'd rolled off him disappear. “I don't know if I should.” He patted his left leg.

  “Oh, I forgot,” she said with a blush. “How terrible of me. How about on Friday, then? Do you think that will be enough time for your leg to recover?”

  Against his better judgment, he nodded. “I think so. But you need to know something.” He rolled on his side to face her and tucked a golden hank of her hair behind her ear. “I don't gallop. I rarely ever canter. The most I normally do is a trot. Do you still want me to take you?”

  She nodded. “I know it's asking a lot of you. Not that I think you're afraid of horses, mind you. I just thought we could have some time together outside and since I didn’t think you’d enjoy walking through the forests overmuch, riding horses seemed the only choice left.” She paused and her face lit as if she’d just made some great medical discovery. “Oh wait, I bet you'd rather fish, wouldn’t you? You can still stand long enough to do that, can’t you?”

  “Yes.” He reached forward to untwist the thin strap of her chemise that had somehow turned over in the night. “I wouldn't mind taking you fishing one bit. We could go now if you'd like.”

  Her green eyes lit with excitement and a grin split her beautiful face. “Yes. I just need to put something else on first.”

  “Just wear that,” he said, turning his face away so he wouldn't give into the temptation and kiss her soft lips. He forced himself to stand and immediately clamped his jaw shut as tightly as he could. It wouldn’t do to scream the string of vile curses that were sounding in his head from the crippling pain he was feeling in his leg just now. A night’s rest had not improved the soreness in his leg one bit. Now, instead of it feeling like a smithy had taken his hammer to it, it felt like the whole bloody smithy's shop had fallen on it. He took a step and winced. Thankfully, Emma had scurried over to the vanity and was braiding her hair. She couldn't see him in pain.

  He hobbled over to the door and leaned against the frame. “Emma, I'll meet you out there. I need to make a stop first.”

  She smiled. “Perfect. I need to do something, too. Just go on and I'll be out there when I'm done.”

  Nodding, he left the room. He didn't really have a stop to make. He just said that to allow himself some extra time to limp out there without her getting suspicious about what was taking so long and insisting she nurse him back to health. Bitterness washed over him. If he was in a position to marry her, that's exactly what he'd do. He'd lie in bed and let her fuss all over him whether he needed it or not. When he'd been recovering from his accident, nobody had fawned over him, not that he'd wanted them to. But now he understood why the men sent out in the Napoleonic Wars encouraged the troupe of women who followed them. When injured, the attentions of a beautiful and sweet woman could do wonders for a man, physically and in other ways.

  By the time Marcus exited the side door of his house, he feared Emma had beaten him to the fishing spot they'd always used in the past. If she had, he'd just make up some excuse about stopping to see if another spot was better for fishing this morning. He pursed his lips. Emma wouldn't believe him if he said that. From the first time he'd brought her out here, he'd always touted the same spot, claiming the position of the trees made the spot ideal any time of the day to go fishing because it was always in the shade. Of course, as any good fisherman would do, he'd walk around and fish other places, too. But as a force of habit, he always started out and ended in the same spot. He highly doubted Emma would have forgotten this fact.

  “I'm coming!”

  Marcus’ head snapped around and his eyes beheld the most beautiful sight a man could see: Emma with pink cheeks and flying hair, wearing nothing but a thin slip of a chemise as she ran barefoot straight to him. He smiled. “Slow down or you'll run right into the
water.”

  She slowed and came to a stop right next to him. “Did you forget something?”

  He blinked at her. Damn. Between his limping and thoughts of Emma’s tender touches, he'd forgotten to get the fishing gear. “No,” he said as evenly as he could. “I thought you were bringing that.”

  “Oh. I didn't realize. All right, you scout out a good place to stand, and I'll be right back.” She turned to walk away, then turned back to him. “Oh, and take off those nasty stockings, would you?”

  He glanced down at his stocking-clad feet. He'd been in no position to bend over and put his boots back on in Emma's room and hadn't had time to stop by his room to find a pair of shoes that didn't require bending over to put on. He sat on a rock and effortlessly removed his right stocking before scowling at the left. Perhaps he should have asked Emma to remove his stockings last night when she'd taken off his boots. Now that would have been romantic, he thought with a wry smile.

  Grinding his teeth to keep from calling out in pain, he bent forward and tried his best not to touch his thigh any more than was necessary. Whoever invented these offending things should be shot. A man shouldn't have to wear a garment that's made to cover his foot, but actually covers his foot, ankle, calf, knee, and then two to six inches of his thighs. It just wasn’t manly. At least he wasn't like some men, who wore garters to keep their stockings in place so they wouldn't slip down and look wrinkled, or heaven forbid, fall below the bottom of their breeches and expose part of their knee. Marcus grimaced. That was the advantage of wearing trousers. One’s stockings could slip down and roll up around one’s ankle (which, to be honest, sometimes they did), and nobody would be any the wiser about it.

  “I've got it all, I think,” a breathless Emma said. Her flushed face and full arms made him feel like such a cur for making her go fetch the equipment.

  “Good. Why don't you bring it over here and I'll get our rods strung.”

  She nodded and put the creel—or little wicker basket as nearly everyone who wasn’t a fisherman liked to call it—down by his feet before handing him the two rods. Taking a seat next to him on the log, she pushed her braid back behind her shoulders. “I'd help, but it's been a while.”

  He flashed her a smile. “Not to worry. I didn't expect you to remember. Besides, I’ll get to redeem myself by rigging it up for you.”

  “It was never my responsibility to go get the poles, was it?” she asked laughingly as she lightly elbowed him in the side. “I didn't think so.”

  Grinning, he attached the reel to her pole and pulled the fly line through the guides. “Pick a fly.” He handed her his fly box.

  She opened it and frowned. “You don't have very many.”

  He shrugged. “I can only use one at a time.” He glanced over at the fly box and counted the flies inside. “The way I see it, we each have three to lose.”

  “I don't plan to lose mine,” she said, raising her nose in the air.

  He chuckled. “We'll see about that. Just pick one.”

  “Hmm,” she said as she looked down at the six pathetic flies. She held one up and turned it to the side to inspect the hair and feathers. He'd combined them to make what he considered his best mayfly. “This one.” She handed it to him. “If you don't mind, that is.”

  “Not at all.” He took the fly from her and tied it onto the end of her line. “There you go, Miss Green. Go see if you can beat me.”

  She grinned at him. “You know I can't.”

  “You never know,” he encouraged with a wink.

  Emma and Louise had always made a game of trying to catch Marcus’ perfect fish while he was still rigging up his pole. Only once had either of them actually gotten a fish on their line in the amount of time it took him to get his rod set up. And though the fish wasn't anything special, it had been to Emma. She'd been ten at the time. He'd rigged her pole first and let her go while he got Louise's ready. As soon as Louise's was ready, she’d snatched it from him and run to the bank to compete with Emma while he tied the fly he'd hidden in his pocket on his line. Just before he'd pulled the last knot, Emma had run back up the bank with the smallest, ugliest fish he'd ever seen.

  Upon closer inspection, he’d realized the fish was dead and had been for quite some time by the smell of it. But Emma wouldn't hear a word of it. She’d dangled that stinky fish in his face for a good ten minutes before he’d agreed she was the best angler he'd ever seen.

  Marcus grinned at the memory and grabbed a shabby looking fly out of his fly box. It had been more than thirteen years since he'd had the urge to tie any new ones. Even though he'd gone infrequently over the past thirteen years, he'd managed to lose several and hadn't bothered to replace them. He really ought to make more. He'd have more time next week after Patrick reclaimed his spawns. Perhaps he could spend a few afternoons replenishing his selection of flies.

  “Finally. I was beginning to think I’d have to hire a Bow Street Runner to track you down,” Emma said when Marcus leisurely limped down to the bank and leaned against a tree.

  “How many have you caught?”

  She shot the worst scowl he'd ever seen in his direction.

  Chuckling, he pulled out his line and got ready to cast. “Emma, I've been meaning to ask you something.”

  Emma started and visibly swallowed. Hard. He squinted his eyes at her. Was she worried? He shook his head and waited for her to look at him again. “Yes?” Her eyes were shiny with what looked like tears but couldn't possibly be. Marcus might be tall and rather unsightly, but he'd never hurt a fly—except maybe the ones he fished with, that is. She had no need to be scared of him.

  He cocked his head then shook off the thought. “Just how did you manage to get that dead fish on your line?”

  Her mouth fell open and he ducked his head so she wouldn't see his smile. “Oh. Papa caught him the day before, and I hid him in my reticule. Then while you were getting Louise's pole ready, I pried his mouth open a little and shoved my hook inside.”

  He scrunched his nose and felt the tug of his top lip attempting to curl up in disgust. That was actually a rather gruesome tale. Perhaps next time she pulled a trick like that, he'd not ask for the details. “You wanted to win that badly?”

  She nodded. “If you remember correctly, the only person who seemed to ever catch anything was you.”

  “That's not true.” Or was it? He couldn't really remember either way. The only reason he'd ever allowed them to fish with him was because they'd begged to go, and sometimes they'd actually turned out to be good company. He'd once taken his friend Alex and learned what bad company while fishing was all about. Alex had insisted on examining the outside—and inside—of every fish Marcus caught. After that horrific day, he had willingly taken Emma and Louise and hadn't breathed a word of complaint about anything they had done. “It doesn't really matter, does it?”

  “I guess not. Perhaps I'm not doing it right.”

  “Your form looks right to me,” Marcus said without even looking at her. If he watched her, then he'd see what she was doing wrong. If he saw what she was doing wrong, he'd want to help her, and helping her would only lead them both into trouble. He'd have to stand behind her and press his body against hers so he could help her bring the rod back and forth; which meant not only would her perfect derriere be pushed up against him, but there was a chance, albeit a small one, that his arms might brush her plump breasts. He shifted his right leg forward in case she glanced over at him. The last thing he needed was another intimate encounter with Emma. He was trying to put distance between them, not get closer to her.

  “Are you sure?” she asked with a frown.

  He started. “Hmm? Oh, yes. You're form is as it should be.” He blew out an aggravated breath. He needed to concentrate on fishing and stay focused on the conversation, not think about her luscious body. Such thoughts only led to trouble.

  “I don't know,” she said, casting in a way that would make the early pioneers of the sport cringe. “It's been a long time. Ca
n you come help me?”

  “No, no, you're doing everything right.” Before she could protest again, he cast his fly into the stream and fished it as slowly as possible. He scowled. She'd pulled all her line in and appeared to be waiting for him to bring his line in so she could demand he help her. Taking as much time as he dared, he popped and jerked and slowly pulled in his fly, until he was afraid it would get caught on some weeds. “All right. I'll help you. Once. That's it.”

  “Excellent!” She pulled out more than enough line and let it pool at her feet while he leaned his rod against the tree and came to her side. “Do I hold it like this? Or this?”

  He scowled. “Neither.” Covering her hand with his, he positioned it where she should hold the rod. “All right, now come back with it, then snap it forward. Very good. Do it again.” He took his hand off hers and watched her, narrowly escaping being impaled by the sharp hook on the end of her line as she slung her pole around without an ounce of care or grace. “Very good. Do it just like that and you'll catch a fish in no time.”

  “You're lying,” she called to his back as he hobbled away.

  He couldn't deny her words, so he ignored them. “I'm going to miss my perfect fish.” He picked up his pole again.

  “Heaven forbid that happens.” Her brows knit together in a most innocent way as she tilted her head to the side and studied him with an intensity that almost made him squirm. “Hmm, you're holding the rod differently and casting it differently than I am.”

  “Of course my stance is different. I'm leaning against a tree.” He elbowed the tree behind him to prove his point. “I have to do a side cast or I'd either break my rod on the tree or get my hook stuck up in the branches.”

  “Can you teach me the side cast?” she asked excitedly.

  He groaned. “No. You're doing just fine with the cast you're using.”

  “But I'll never catch a fish.”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Emma.” He leaned his pole against the tree again and started doing his best to walk toward her in a dignified manner despite how badly his leg hurt. “I'll help you catch one. That's it.”