Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

“ S o, you saw those.” Nathan wasn’t surprised. He had seen the look on his wife’s face when she had caught sight of him bathing at the inn on the way to Carramere Castle. He had known what those wide eyes and that gasp of horror had meant. She had seen the scars, and she thought he was hideous.

He terrified her.

“Yes, I saw them,” she said, and it was testament to her character that she did not look away.

Anger and shame boiled inside of him, and Nathan gripped his glass very tight, so tightly he was afraid he would break it. He didn’t want to get angry, though, not right now. She had every right to wonder about the scars, and maybe she even had the right to ask about them. She was his wife after all.

“They are hideous, I know,” he heard himself say.

Rosalie’s expression clouded. “No, they’re not,” she replied with such strong emphasis that he stared at her. “Well, I don’t mean to glorify them,” she amended quickly. “I simply meant that I wasn’t disgusted by them if that’s what you think.”

“You should be,” he said, and he could hear the coldness in his voice.

“I’m disgusted that someone did that to you,” she argued fiercely, and he could tell from the bright flash of fury in her eyes that she meant it. This calmed him a little, and he was able to take a deep breath. As he did, some of the anger and shame began to melt away.

She saw them, and she is still here, speaking to you.

“I suppose I could pretend I got them in the army,” he mused, trying to keep the conversation on the lighter side. “But you wouldn’t believe that, would you?”

“I have read enough novels to know that when a man has scars all over his back and speaks of his father the way you speak of yours that the father was the one who gave them to him.”

“Well, I suppose novels do get it right, now and again.” Nathan shifted in his chair. He supposed it was better to just tell her. It wasn’t as if he could hide it.

“Yes, my father gave them to me,” he said, his eyes meeting hers. “He was a cruel, vindictive, evil man. And my brother, as I told you, was soft and weak. My father bullied him first, but it became clear to me from a young age that Ethan couldn’t take it; he wasn’t tough enough. And I knew that if my father kept hurting Ethan, he would die.

“So, I made myself a troublemaker in order to attract my father’s fury. It worked better than I expected actually. My father was so furious at me for all the trouble I caused that he mostly left Ethan alone. At least Ethan was well-behaved, even if he was a little soft. Me, on the other hand… I was the major disappointment.

“But of course, it led to the scars.”

He didn’t want to linger too much on these, on the pain and humiliation they had caused him, but he knew, as he looked into Rosalie’s eyes, that she understood enough.

“Your mother should have stopped that,” she said, and he could tell she was struggling not to sound angry.

“Yes, she should have,” Nathan agreed, nodding gravely. “But she was also a victim of my father’s abuse, and it was easier for her to give into it and go along. She wasn’t strong, and I don’t fault her for that.” He sighed. “I am at least grateful that I spared Ethan the misery of my father’s cruelty. His life was cut short, but I’m glad he got to enjoy what little time he had.”

“You were a good brother,” she said, and the words pierced Nathan’s heart with more force than he was expecting. For a moment, he was speechless then he cleared his throat.

“Thank you. I wish I’d done more, though. Sometimes… sometimes it all makes it hard to even look at myself in the mirror.”

She tilted her head to one side, thinking. “Is that why you cut up the portrait there?” she pointed at the rolled-up canvas in the corner, and Nathan stared at it. He’d almost completely forgotten about it.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s not me. That’s my father. We looked exactly alike. Everyone said I was his spitting image. And when I took over the Castle, I made sure all portraits of him were removed. That was the one that hung here in the study. I… Well, I destroyed it in a moment of rage. It’s petty, I know, but?—”

“No, I think it was right,” Rosalie replied firmly. “In fact, I bet it was cathartic. I wish I had a portrait of my own father that I could slash up.”

“We could get you one,” he offered, and she laughed.

“I do hope that one day, I get to find closure with him,” she said.

“I hope you do, too,” Nathan agreed sincerely. “I would have preferred a real moment of clarity with mine as opposed to slicing up his portrait.”

She hesitated, as if she was about to ask something, and he wondered if she was thinking of the rumors. He couldn’t forget her question from when he had been feeding her the food on the night of their wedding: Is it true that you killed… your father?

Does she still wonder that? he wondered.

But when she opened her mouth again, it was simply to yawn. “I think that I am worn out from today’s adventures,” she said, setting the now empty glass of scotch back on the desk.

“Yes, we should go to bed,” he replied decisively. He downed the rest of his scotch and stood then took her by the arm, and together, they walked quietly back through the house. It was late, and none of the servants were around.

“I need to let down my hair,” Rosalie murmured as they entered their bedroom. “My pins are rather tight today, and my head hurts. I should ring for Clara.”

“Clara is asleep by now,” he said. “Here, let me do it.”

She looked at him uncertainly. “But… you don’t know how?”

He folded his arms. “How hard could it be? It’s just hair.”

She laughed, and he could tell she was still unsure, but at last, she relented. “All right then,” she murmured, and very slowly, she turned around.

Nathan moved closer. There were only a few candles lit in their room, and in the dim light, it was difficult to see all the pins. However, he moved very carefully as he raised his hands to her hair and began to pull them out.

“There are so many of them,” he said, laughing softly. “How many pins does one woman need?”

“You’d have to ask Clara,” Rosalie murmured. “She insists this is how she makes me beautiful.”

“You don’t need pins for that,” he said, and he felt her body tremble slightly.

One by one, the pins came out of her hair; one by one, the curls of auburn fell down, landing softly against her milky white skin. He couldn’t help but follow them with his eyes and wonder what it would feel like to touch that skin on the back of her neck and on her upper back. He was careful to try not to touch her, but of course, he couldn’t avoid it entirely. And as he reached for a pin near the base of her neck, his fingers grazed her skin.

As they did, he felt her flinch slightly.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked quickly.

“Not at all,” she replied, her voice choked.

His throat was very dry. Her skin was soft to the touch, like silk, and warm. He cleared his throat and reached for another pin, careful this time to make sure his fingers didn’t accidentally touch her again.

“There you go,” he said at last. “All done.”

She turned around slowly. She wasn’t smiling, but there was a hard, fierce look on her face that he couldn’t fully interpret. His heart was in his throat, and he had to fight every instinct to reach out and trace his fingers across her lips.

They changed behind their respective screens. His movements felt clumsy; his brain felt clunky; he couldn’t think straight.

At last, they were both in their nightclothes, and then they slipped beneath the sheets. He blew out the candles, and then they lay together in the dark, the weight of everything they had shared heavy between them, charging the silence.

“Do you think…” her voice came like a whisper out of the shadows, and he turned toward her.

“What?”

He couldn’t see her, but he could feel her heat; he could hear her gentle breathing; he could smell her scent.

“Do you think you will ever want to give this marriage a real shot?”

He stared at where he thought her eyes must be, and for a moment, he was tempted to answer her, to say, Of course. I think we should do it; I think we should live together as man and wife; I think we should let ourselves be happy.

But then Redfield’s final words came back to him, like a punch to the stomach: No wonder she married you.

Rosalie had prayed her whole life that she wouldn’t marry a man like her father. And she had ended up with him—a man who was worse than her father, if she only knew the truth.

He swallowed and tried to think of something to say to reassure her. But what could he say? I’m not good enough for you? You’re better off not being my true wife? She wouldn’t understand, not unless he told her everything, and he wasn’t going to do that.

Her breathing soon became slower and deeper, and he allowed himself this one tenderness: as she was falling asleep, he reached out and held her, letting his arm dangle over her shoulder, his hand playing with a lock of her hair.

Much later, after she had fallen deeply asleep, Nathan got out of bed and crept back downstairs to the study. Only then did he take a bottle of ink from the desk and a quill and open up the card that was tied around the bottle of scotch.

There were three lines written there. The first was the date of his 18th birthday, next to which he’d written, Nathan & Ethan, Nathan’s 18th birthday. Below that was another date six years later then, Nathan & Ethan, Nathan’s return from the Army.

Below that was another date from just a few weeks previously. Written next to it was, Nathan, on the occasion of my wedding.

Smiling, Nathan added a fourth line: today’s date, followed by, Nathan & Rosalie, When Rosalie became the heroine of her own life.