He grabbed the pot with the white salve. The scent of flowers tickled his senses. He opened the window and was about to lob the pot into the hedgerows when a hand touched his arm.
“Tristan?”
He spun around, startling Effie who leapt back. He hadn’t heard her coming.
“I called to you, but you didn’t hear me.” She frowned at his hand gripping the jar. “What were you doing?”
He fiddled with his collar and put the jar on the table. “I was distracted.”
She kept frowning. The beautiful lime and tea rose pink gown gave her an ethereal, sweet aura, like a spring fairy, which was exactly what he needed to silence his anxiety. And he would rather cut off his left bollock than scare her.
“Is everything all right?” A long chestnut curl bounced over the crook of her neck, touching her creamy skin.
He’d never been jealous of a curl of hair.
The temptation to wrap the curl around his finger to straighten it, only to see it curl again, was too strong. He gently rubbed the curl between his thumb and forefinger, feeling how silky her hair was.
“I don’t feel like myself tonight.” The small, vague confession cost him energy and control.
“Would you like me to leave?”
“No.” He held out a chair for her. “Please stay.”
She sat down in a swish of silk. “You look tense.”
“I am, but don’t worry about me.” He poured her a glass of elder water. “I’m glad you’re here.”
She put a hand on his, right over his scratched knuckles. He could avoid being hit in the face and could hide his body, but the bruises and scratches on his knuckles were in plain sight.
“What happened to your hands?” she asked, her voice sweet and soft like her touch, but devastating like a blow.
“I box regularly.”
She stroked gently the fresh bruises. “So does my brother Frank. He was a boxing champion at Cambridge. But I’ve never seen him with such angry bruises on his knuckles.”
“It’s nothing.” He’d said that countless times to everyone who had shown concern about his health and bruises.
But that night, the familiar words left a bitter taste in his mouth. He could easily lie to Harris, James, George, or Rowan. He couldn’t easily lie to Effie.
“I don’t believe you,” she whispered, still touching his hand. “I can recognise brutal trauma when I see it. You don’t box with gloves, and bare-knuckle fights are illegal. But why would a marquess, who can do everything he wants, risk life and limb in an illegal fight?”
He stared at his glass of water, a sense of shame gnawing at him as never before.
“And then there was that cut I stitched,” she continued. “Tell me the truth.”
“There’s nothing to tell.” He didn’t sound confident to his own ears.
All those people worrying about him were chipping away at his composure.
On top of everything else, the headache pounded at the base of his neck and sweat damped his back. His sight darkened at the edges with a pulsating black halo that made him queasy.
“Please, Effie, let it go.”
But she didn’t. She kept caressing his hand. “This is the first time you’ve said please.”
“That tells you how much I want you to stop questioning me.”
She closed her hand around his. “There’s something else I recognise, something animals and humans have in common. Fear. The eyes of a scared animal are the same as those of a man. What are you afraid of?”
He couldn’t breathe. The blow he’d received in the head was affecting him. He tried to take another sip of water, but the room suddenly became dark.
