Chapter Six

I t was beyond foolish to have attended the ball the evening before when he had only one leg. Especially because he wanted to see a girl who was secretly engaged to someone else. Mark had made a cake of himself without his starchy cousin's help, yet he'd been unable to resist viewing Helen in all her finery. She was a rare beauty. Even with her hair tamed and her dress tidy, there had been a sort of fae wildness about her. She would never be truly domesticated. And he couldn't help but think how sad a thing it would be if she were.

He waited in his carriage while the footman went up to the door of Hampford House to get the Duke of Pelford. They were to go shooting at Manton's this morning, something that he had never done before. Having been a captain in His Majesty's army, Mark was a very good shot. Pelford climbed into the carriage with a smile. He was shorter than him, but nearly twice as wide. A strong and muscular man who had been an incredible soldier. Mark could see a small jam handprint on his dark blue sleeve, but didn't mention it. His baby son had clearly left his mark on his father that morning.

‘Shooting clay pigeons isn't real sport,' Pelford said with an easy smile. ‘But it's the closest thing a man can do in London.'

‘I haven't held a gun since Waterloo,' Mark admitted. ‘I will probably be a bit rusty.'

‘Excellent. Then I shall win. I must confess that my wife used to always beat me at marksmanship.'

‘The Stringham sisters are certainly intrepid young ladies.'

He laughed. ‘That is a polite way to put it.'

The carriage came to a stop and Pelford got out. He waited for Mark, but made no attempt to assist him. Mark liked the Duke more for it. Together they walked into Manton's shooting range. The footman had barely opened the door when Mark heard the sound of a shot and the acrid smell of gunpowder filled his senses. Instinctively, he ducked down, covering his ears with his hands. He couldn't breathe. The sounds of more bullets filled the air and he cringed, the faces of his men flashing before his eyes. Shaking his head, he cleared the images from his mind. He was no longer at the Battle of Waterloo. He needed to stand up and behave like a man. But his good leg would not support him and he could not move.

‘Inverness,' Pelford said. ‘Inverness, are you all right?'

Mark couldn't answer. He couldn't even move a muscle.

For the second time in his life, Pelford lifted him up and took Mark to safety. He'd been the one to carry Mark's limp body off the battlefield. It was humiliating to repeat that experience in London at a popular shooting club. Pelford put him in his carriage, as if his weight were nothing to the man. Shame trickled down Mark's neck as he finally was able to open his eyes. He was a wreck of an earl.

‘You're not the only former soldier to respond to gunshots that way,' Pelford said quietly. ‘War affects everyone differently and there is nothing to be ashamed of. You served honourably and sacrificed for your country. I am privileged to consider you a friend.'

‘I feel unmanned,' Mark admitted, covering his eyes with his hands. ‘Or rather like half of a man.'

Pelford exhaled slowly. ‘I have felt the same way. Sometimes I wake up in the night screaming and my wife holds me until I can calm down. No one who hasn't lived through the horror of a battle can ever truly understand what it does to a person.'

Mark wouldn't trust himself with a woman. Let alone a lady wife. Taking a deep breath, he dropped his hands. ‘Yet you are not afraid of the sound of a gunshot.'

‘No,' he said, shaking his head. ‘But now the sight of blood makes me swoon. Not very manly, eh? I blacked out when Frederica bore our son. It was terrifying to see her covered in her own blood. It reminded me of when I nearly lost her in Belgium.'

Mark could only nod his head forward, his throat closing on all the words he could have said. But for the first time since his brother's death, Mark thought someone truly did understand what he was going through. And he did not judge him for it.

The carriage arrived at his house and Mark slowly got out. Pelford followed him to the door without a word. He could not meet the other man's gaze even to thank him. The Duke did not seem to want thanks, for he waited until Mark was inside his house to leave.

Limping out to his garden, Mark sat down in the chair that had become a permanent fixture back there. Helen had come back to the garden without him. The grass was perfectly trimmed. New wooden bark was in the flower beds and the bushes had been cut back. His chair had been set underneath the only tree in the garden, which had also been pruned. It was like his own private haven from the world.

He took out his sketchbook and had no difficulty drawing Helen from his memory of last night. The braided circlet of her hair with escaping curls. The snake around her neck and her arm. The movement of her white gown with its overlay of lace. The gossamer shawl floating over her shoulders and arms.

‘Is that how you see me?' a voice said from behind him.

Mark didn't have to turn to know that it was hers. Snapping his sketchbook closed, he sat up in his chair. He placed his hands on the armrests to help him lift his body to standing.

‘There is no need to stand, Mark,' Helen said from in front of him. ‘There is no formality between friends.'

‘Are we friends?'

She surprised him by taking a seat on the ground by his chair and leaning her back against its side. Perilously close to him. ‘I think we're friends.'

He attempted a little humour. ‘I'm not sure that I want to pick you up. You might bite me at the bottom of the hill after I carried you down.'

Helen laughed, a high, unearthly sound. ‘You entirely missed the point of the story. Of course I am going to bite you. I am a snake. It is who I am and, no matter how many times I shed my skin, it is who I will always be.'

‘Then what animal am I?'

She didn't hesitate. ‘A bird with a broken wing.'

‘Flightless.'

‘Not all birds were meant to fly.'

He clenched his teeth. ‘I don't know any bird that does not.'

Helen sighed, leaning her head against the hand rest of his chair, so close to his hand. ‘It's because you haven't been to South America. Neither have I for that matter, but I want to go. In South America they have a species of bird called penguins and they do not fly, but swim in the icy waters.'

‘I've never heard of a penguin.'

‘You look like one, too,' she retorted. ‘They have white bellies and black backs, making them look as though they are always wearing a tuxedo.'

‘What else do you know about them?'

Her forehead wrinkled as if she was trying to remember something. ‘The males sit on the eggs and not the females.'

‘What do the females do?'

‘They hunt for fish, of course.'

Mark grimaced. That was all very well for the animal kingdom, but human men were supposed to be the hunters. The protectors. Not patiently sit back and care for the offspring.

‘Why are you here, Helen? Surely you have several bouquets from suitors this morning and a line of them out your door, waiting to call on you.'

She pulled her knees against her chest, resting her head on them. ‘I don't like clipped flowers. It kills them prematurely. Such a waste. If they knew me at all, they would have sent me a flower in a pot that I could put in my room or plant in my garden.'

‘You clipped several bushes and flowers in my back garden.'

‘Sometimes you have to cut something down, so that it can grow in a new direction.' Helen opened her reticule and two small snakes slithered out of it. ‘A smooth snake and a grass snake. The only other native species of snakes in Britain is an adder, which is poisonous. I did not bring one for obvious reasons. Would you care to draw these two snakes?'

Mark opened his sketch book and began to draw the small snake. The yellow and black collar behind its head and the black spots down the side of the body. The snake hissed at him and he couldn't help but flinch.

‘How do you know it's not poisonous?'

Helen lifted her head to look at him. ‘The adder has a dark zigzag pattern on its back and a dark V-shape on its head. As you can see, there are only black markings on its body signifying that it is a grass snake.'

Mark was discovering that he did not like snakes at all. He quickly finished the first sketch and turned the page to start the other. This snake was grey with a dark butterfly wing shape on the top of its head. ‘Will there only be three snake illustrations in your book?'

She shook her head, her hair loose down her back, shimmering like the waves in a pond. ‘Oh, no. But we'll have to go to the Tower of London Menagerie to sketch the rest of them.'

Dropping his pencil, he stooped to pick it up only to touch her hand instead of the graphite. It was so pale that her blue veins were translucent through the skin. She was impossibly delicate. Unable to resist, he ran his finger over her hand and up the tender flesh of her arm. Her hand had calluses and small white scars, but the skin on her arm was as soft as silk.

Helen closed her eyes and made a contented noise with her mouth, drawing his eyes there. He had not kissed a woman since before the Battle of Waterloo. Yet he longed for nothing more than to lean over and press his lips to hers. Were they as soft as the skin on her arm? He wished to be chest to chest, hip to hip with her.

Mark released his hold and her eyes popped open.

She swallowed and stared at him, before handing him the pencil. ‘Will you come with me to the Tower of London tomorrow?'

‘Yes.' The words were out of him before he could think. Before he remembered that he needed to keep her at a proper distance.

Helen smiled, and instead of leaning her head against her knees again, she laid it on the side of his leg, as though she was a cat. He was tempted to stroke her hair and the curve of her long neck. Something inside him told him that she would make a purring sound if he did. But it would change their soft friendship into something else. Something his heart and body were not ready for. He was too broken to love her. To be a husband to any woman.

Yet surprisingly, she was leaning her head against his bad leg. The one that was cut off below the knee. The one he hid underneath long trousers. Did Helen know that it was his missing leg? Would she have cared? Would she be disgusted if she saw the scars on his knee and the others on his belly? His long hair covered the scar on his forehead and the damage to his soul was hidden underneath his skin.

Helen wore her scars on her hands, unashamed for everyone to see.