“No.” She caught his hands and stopped him. “Not until you take off your shirt.”
Fifteen
There was a long silence. Luke could hear some bird circling high on the wind, calling bleak and harsh.
“If you’re not in the mood,” he began, getting off her.
Bella caught him by the arm. “I am in the mood, but not a button, a lace, or a hook will I undo unless you show me whatever it is you’re hiding.” She waited. Surely it could not be such a terrible sight. And even if his wound was hideous, it wouldn’t, couldn’t, make him any less attractive to her. She was not such a shallow creature.
And besides, she loved him.
He didn’t respond, just looked away across the hills, his profile grim and unyielding, his jaw clenched tight.
She said in a soft voice, “Luke, please don’t worry. It will make no differ—”
“It’s clouding over and it looks like rain. We’d better get back.”
She rose, brushing grass from her skirts. “Pretending it isn’t there will not make it go away, Luke. Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter—”
“If it doesn’t matter, why make such an issue of it?” His voice was almost savage.
“I haven’t made it an issue, Luke. You have,” she said quietly. “You have only to trust me.”
For answer he fetched the horses. In silence he brought them back, and in silence he boosted her into the sidesaddle.
He mounted and gazed for a moment at the vista spread before them. The land of her birth. “We shall leave for England first thing in the morning. Enough time has been wasted here.”
He didn’t meet her eyes, and when they moved off, he rode at a distance that was too great for conversation. Bella followed, guilt and anger warring within her.
Anger won, anger that he was making such a meal of something she was sure was not so terrible. It was a handsome man issue, she supposed. Having been born beautiful, he couldn’t bear now to be less than perfect.
But she was his wife. She had no quibble with him concealing his wound from the world, but she would not be stripped naked, giving up all the secrets of her body to a man who refused to take off his shirt for her.
It hadn’t been easy. For the last eight years she hadn’t even seen her own body—the girls had been made to bathe under a shapeless linen gown—but had she refused him when he’d wanted to strip her nightgown from her? No, even though she hadn’t felt at all comfortable when he’d laid her bare, knowing she was inadequate, too skinny, and lacking the womanly curves men preferred. But she’d trusted him and revealed herself to him. Because he was her husband.
If he’d removed his shirt today, she would have happily sent years of trained convent modesty to the winds and bared herself to him and the skies and the endless rolling hills.
But would he trust her with one simple little scar? It wasn’t big; she’d felt it. No bigger than her palm. But no, Mr. Too-Beautiful-for—no, Lord Too-Beautiful-for-Words wouldn’t trust his wife with his one small imperfection.
It wasn’t even anything to be ashamed of. A scar gained in war was a mark of heroism.
Besides, she desired him. It was all very well for him, running his hands over every inch of her skin, touching her wherever he wanted and causing her to shiver with delight.
Did he think she wanted to caress ashirt?
When Bella told Perlita it was their only night in Valle Verde, she nodded. “Then we will dress for dinner and make a special event of it.”
Dress for dinner? Isabella washed, braided her hair into a coronet, and put on her new red dress. It looked pretty enough, but a dress bought at a town market couldn’t compete. Not that she wanted to compete with her sister. Not that she could.
She looked at her reflection in the looking glass and sighed. “It will have to do.”
“No.” Luke, bathed andfreshly shaved, looked heartbreakingly handsome in his elegantly tailored dark blue coat, buff breeches, and shining, freshly polished boots. He’d picked up a bit of color in the open air, and his cheekbones were lightly bronzed. He looked magnificent. “That dress needs something else.” It was the first time he’d spoken to her since their argument in the hills.
“I haven’t got anything else.” Her mother’s pearls would have looked perfect.
“What about this?” He placed a shawl around her shoulders. Made of heavy cream silk, it was embroidered with dark red flowers. Bella couldn’t speak. She’d never worn anything so beautiful in her life.
More than that, it was a peace offering.
