Chapter Twenty-Seven

S itting up, Mark took out his sketchbook. He flipped past the pictures of Helen to a blank page. He began to draw his men. His soldiers. Their uniform coats and their kilts. He drew their feathered hats, their tartans and their boots. Flipping the page again, he drew the soldier who played the bagpipes as they marched. He drew Mackenzie with his sabre over his head, preparing to strike. He drew Black with his buckshot, loading his gun. Then he drew the enemy. In houses and barns. On higher ground. Flipping more pages, he drew the wounded. The carnage. The truth about the Battle of Waterloo.

Mark didn't stop there. He kept turning pages. Kept scribbling down the images that haunted his days and nights. The piles of limbs. The rows of wounded soldiers in churches that were makeshift hospitals. He drew the lamentations of wives and sisters, hovering over their beloved dead.

He penned his nightmares.

Mark filled every page in the book.

After sketching most of the morning, he dozed in his chair, enjoying the spring air and his perfectly tended garden thanks to Helen. Her gardening skills were something that raised her in his mother's esteem.

‘At least the sassenach is willing to get her hands dirty. You could do worse,' his mother had said. ‘Not that a nice Scottish lass wouldn't be better. Because undoubtedly she would.'

It was faint praise, but from a fiercely Scottish woman it was probably the highest compliment that Helen would receive. After being initially rejected by London society, Mark also believed that his mother liked Helen's less than formal manners and welcoming ways. The Duchess of Stringham had taken both his mother and Aunt Fiona underneath her wing of approval. His mother received a stack of cards and invitations every morning with the post. She shook her head and pretended not to care, but Mark knew that she did.

Mark saw Helen's blonde hair peeking over the fence and then a boot. She easily swung herself on top of the fence and waved to him. ‘You're not going to pretend to be asleep today, Pirate?'

Mark stood up with as much effort as it took her to scale a stone fence. ‘Pirate?'

He watched Helen swing both legs over to his side of the fence and slowly lift herself down with her arms, dropping the last few inches on to her feet.

Turning to face him, Helen smiled. It was blindingly bright. Perhaps if he truly were a poetic Broody Byron, he would compare it to the shining sun. ‘I thought you looked like a pirate the first time that I saw you,' she said, walking towards him until her dress brushed the top of his boots. ‘Your face was scruffy and unshaven. And your hair a little too long. Your dark clothes rumpled. You were like a melancholy hero in one of the Gothic tales that you read.'

‘I take it that I made an excellent impression.'

‘You did. Didn't you know that every girl dreams about falling in love with a pirate and sailing away with him?'

He swallowed, heavily. His heart felt as heavy as a stone. ‘I don't know if I could be a swashbuckler any more.'

Helen came even closer to him. So close that her chest brushed his lightly, as he swayed on his wooden leg. ‘Nonsense. All the best pirates have a pegleg. Ask Mademoiselle Jaune.'

The wind blew a lock of her finely spun hair into her face. Mark lifted his hand and brushed it back behind her ear. ‘And what shall we do as pirates?'

‘Go on adventures, of course,' she said, her warm breath tickling his chin, her bright blue eyes gazing into his.

‘What kind of adventures?'

Helen placed her hands on his shoulders. ‘The daring and amorous kind... I thought that you should know that I love you. The eros kind. And you don't have to say it back.'

Mark was certain that his own stone heart had stopped beating. ‘I don't want to be your bird with a broken wing.'

Helen shook her head, wrapping her arms around his neck, pulling herself tightly against him. ‘Pity has no place in love. You are a bird that no longer flies, but has realised it can swim. Swimming is probably better for a pirate anyway. They are always on the water.'

Mark's arms could no longer stay at his sides. He put them around Helen's slender form. Folding himself against her. Touching the narrow curve of her spine and waist. ‘I'm not a pirate. I am an earl.'

‘If I kiss you, like they do in fairy tales, do you think you'll turn into a prince?'

‘We'll never know unless you try.'

Helen smiled and softly rubbed her lips across his. Over and over. The contact as fleeting as a butterfly's wing brushing against his mouth. Then she opened her lips and he lost himself in her touch. The texture of her tongue. The taste of her mouth. The pressure of her lips against his. The feeling of her hands running through his hair. Touching his cheeks, his scar, his neck.

He nipped at her lips.

Helen froze, leaning back in his arms in surprise. ‘You just bit me. You are a pirate.'

‘Did you like it?'

‘I loved it.'

Mark lowered his head and nipped at her lower lip again. She purred like a cat. Her hands moved from his neck to explore the muscles of his back, causing him to purr against her lips. When her hands dipped slightly lower than his waist to his backside, he was the one to freeze in surprise.

Helen smiled against his mouth. ‘You're not the only pirate.'

‘Indeed? And what shall I call you?'

‘Captain Serpentine, of course.'

Mark snaked his arms around her even tighter and they kissed and kissed until his lips were swollen and he was shaky standing on his wooden leg. He sat down in his chair and pulled Helen slowly on to his lap. He had to shift his weight to the side, to make accommodations for her size and shape.

Helen wrapped her arms around his neck and laid her head beneath his chin. ‘I love touching you.'

He chuckled. Her silken hair brushing against his swollen lips. ‘You touch me every time we meet.'

‘I cannot seem to help myself. My fingers twitch and tingle with the need to touch you.'

‘I'm not complaining.'

She murmured something not quite understandable and ran her hands over his chest. Stopping when she touched his sketchbook in his upper coat pocket, she fished her hand into his jacket and pulled it out. Helen opened the first page and found the picture he'd drawn the first time that he'd seen her, when he'd thought she was a fairy queen.

‘I look fierce.'

‘Fiercely beautiful.'

Helen flipped the page and saw another sketch of herself. Mark could feel her smiling against his chest, even if he couldn't see her face.

She wouldn't be smiling much longer.

Turning the page, Helen gasped but did not speak. She did not say a word as she turned page after page of his memories of battle, of blood, of war. Ugly images. She closed the book and put it back in his pocket.

‘The damage in me runs deeper than you realised. I should have warned you about the horrors you would see.'

Helen shook her head. ‘I would never have looked away.'

They were silent for several minutes, Helen's head tucked under his chin.

‘What are you thinking?' he asked.

‘Not what you think I'm thinking.'

‘A rather sphinx-like answer.'

Again, he felt her smile against his chest.

‘I was thinking that your illustrations are going to make my publishing house a lot of money. Your memoir of the Highlanders' part in the Battle of Waterloo.'

‘I am no hero, Helen. I was simply a soldier. One that got wounded and had to be carried off the field of battle. By your brother-in-law, no less.'

She lifted her head and gazed directly into his eyes. ‘I thought that we'd already covered that part. You are not a hero. You're a pirate.'

‘Pegleg. Pegleg.' He mimicked her macaw.

Helen smiled, lifting her hands, and brushing his long black hair away from his face. ‘You shouldn't hide your scars, you know. Pirates are much more fearsome with them. I could cut your hair for you, if you like.'

‘You don't like it long?'

She leaned forward and rubbed her nose against his. ‘I like it long, but I love seeing your whole face even more. You really are disturbingly handsome.'

Mark touched her neck and pulled her face towards him for a kiss. Soft and sweet. ‘The pirate and the fairy queen.'

Helen laughed merrily, rubbing her nose against his. ‘I am not a fairy queen. It's the pirate and the publisher... I originally purchased the publishing house Gibbs and Thomas because they would not put my name on my book. But I've realised since how much having a voice means to me. And how much I want other women to be able to share their stories. Men, too. I am serious. I think your experiences and illustrations of the Battle of Waterloo will be very popular. Especially since they are written by the Earl of Inverness.'

‘The horror of war.'

She brushed her lips against his. ‘The indomitable spirit of humankind.'

Mark twirled a lock of her hair on his finger. ‘Your mouth certainly has a way with words.'

She leaned her head closer to his. ‘It's even better with kisses.'

He returned the embraces with great fervour, but he'd been too cowardly to say the words in his heart. He was not as brave or as bold as Helen, who showed her true self for all the world to see.