Liz Tyner - To Win A Wallflower

Her stomach thudded, but she wasn’t truly afraid. He’d put his hands behind him and he had one of the I told you so looks in his eyes.

Silence engulfed them. ‘I’m not trying to scare you, nor am I jesting.’ He spoke in measured tones. ‘Your voice cannot carry through wood and stop dreams of dancing angels. By the time the first shout was out of your mouth, my hand could be over it and, if someone awakened, they would think it an imagination. They might lie awake for a moment to listen, then sleep would grab them again, telling them that they heard nothing.’

She rubbed her arms, trying to soothe away the chill. ‘If you’re trying to make me uncomfortable, you are succeeding.’

He opened the door and stood aside. ‘You can leave at any time you wish.’

He paused a second. ‘Did you hear my last words? Really hear them? You can leave any time you wish. Why would I even think it necessary to say such a thing to you? Is this not your house? Where you are safest in the entire world? I take it for granted that I am stronger than you and can control you because you are smaller.’

She couldn’t untangle his words. They just didn’t make sense to her.

‘Make a fist properly and use it properly.’ His chin lowered. ‘You can leave after punching me. Fair enough?’

‘Not fair at all.’ She stared at the beast in front of her.

‘A fist,’ he commanded.

She did.

‘Thumb out.’ He stepped forward.

She did.

‘Not like that. Your thumb is in a straight line.’

With two steps and keeping his body to the side so he did not block her exit, he moved closer. His eyes locked on hers for a moment, no threat, and a softer question behind them. ‘May I?’ He raised his hand level with her side as he spoke.

With one fingertip reaching out, he rested it at the base of her fist. Then with his other hand, he slid her thumb down until it rested against the outside space after the second knuckle of her hand, making sure her fingertips folded in, and her hand had a square shape to it.

This beast of a man touched her as lightly as if she were made of silk. His fingers, so tender against her hand, shot bolts of awareness into her. She couldn’t move her hand.

‘It might save your life some day.’ His voice rolled over her, reaching deeper into her than the touch had.

‘I doubt that.’ She took a step back, causing his hands to fall to his side. ‘I am careful. To have you in my house is an aberration.’

‘True.’ His eyes registered the jab and lightened. ‘But aberrations happen and sometimes more than once. You may still shout if you wish. As many times as you like.’ He shrugged. ‘Perhaps someone would come instantly to your rescue. Perhaps you would see how much longer it takes for someone to rescue you than you realise, or perhaps I would truly see how safe you are. Convince me of how well you are watched.’

‘What kind of game are you playing?’

‘I want you to see how much your survival could depend on you and how much fighting back is the best, or even only, friend you may have at hand.’

‘I am coddled. Every moment of my life.’

‘Which makes you a perfect victim.’

His gaze lingered on hers. He held up his hand, fingers splayed, but curved inwards. ‘Hit me. Hard.’ His voice softened. ‘Just don’t hurt your hand.’

‘No.’

He brought his hand closer. ‘Hit me.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘I hardly know you. And though I don’t like you at all, I don’t have any wish to hurt— much wish to hurt you.’

He shrugged. ‘I’ve hit men I didn’t know at all. And men I knew quite well.’

‘I will not hit you. It’ll only hurt my hand.’

The tension in his face relaxed. ‘You’re right.’ He moved to the sofa and pulled a pillow into his hands and raised it. ‘Hit gently, then. Just to feel the movement. Not the windmill, but the direct hit.’

‘I said no.’ She looked at him. ‘It’s as if you like to fight.’

‘I do.’

He shook his hand sideways, emphasising the location for her punch. ‘I’ve never not hit anyone who asked me to.’ His lips curved. ‘Chaperoned Miss who cannot even scream.’ His face moved closer. His breath burned at her cheek. ‘You may hit me any time you wish, buttercup.’

His face not moving away, chin so close she could almost feel the bristles.

‘A woman designed to do nothing but wed well.’

The words jabbed her skin.

‘You’re a sweet confection only to look at, a well-designed form to display jewellery. If you’ve a thought in your head, you bat it away with your eyelashes so it will not confuse you.’

He moved around her, circling. ‘You’re dandelion fluff. The feathers in this pillow have more of a brain than you.’

She swung, straight to the chin.

His left hand moved up, his fingers trapping her wrist before it touched him. With a soft clasp, he moved her hand away from his face.

Then his eyes flinched and he tensed. He snapped his fingers back from her.

She touched her skin, to cover the heat his grasp had left behind. ‘If you only did that to show you’re stronger than I, you proved it. To yourself, I suppose. But I already knew it.’

He threw down the pillow. Again he raised his hand, palm to her and fingers open to clasp her punch. ‘Hit it.’ His voice now had the raggedness of anger. He shook the right hand again. ‘Don’t be scared, Miss Fluff. Don’t be afraid.’

Again she refused.

He leaned in. His eyelids dropped, humour and venom mixed, even as his voice softened. ‘Pretend I took your favourite doll.’

She punched out, force behind her arm. He didn’t clasp his fingers around hers, but moved back with the hit. ‘Better.’

All movement of the room stilled while their eyes locked.

‘Again,’ he commanded. ‘And don’t look at where your fist is going. Your eyes tell me your plans. Before you tried to hit my face, you looked at my chin. I saw your movements before they were made. Watch my face. Read my actions. Lie to me with your eyes.’

‘Why?’ She let the word flow with her breathing. ‘Why are you doing this?’

After gazing at her for a second, he dropped his arm. ‘Because everyone should know how to protect themselves. I was taught it by my father.’

Thoughts raced. Yes. A father might teach his son to box. But why was he doing this to her?

‘Apparently you did not hear that my mother died from falling down the stairs. Breaking her neck.’

She nodded. ‘Well, yes—I think.’ Perhaps she’d heard it. But it was a very long time ago. ‘My condolences on her passing, but what has that to do with—?’

The glare from his face would have stopped a horse from rushing ahead.

She said nothing, stepping back.

‘I was in the house that night.’

His sigh was silent. He waited long enough to blink. He frowned, shrugging away the words. ‘Servants carried her upstairs and put her on her bed. My grandmother instructed everyone exactly how Mother’s hair should be prepared and what clothes she should wear and told them to be quick about it. For the first time, she seemed to want my mother to be beautiful.’

Annie tightened her arms around her midsection, imagining Barrett watching his mother’s death. His eyes showed no reflection of the memories. In fact, he seemed more interested in how she would respond.

Annie remained stationary, hiding in herself as best she could.

Annie’s father had told her when her grandmother had passed on. That afternoon, her parents had asked her sisters if they wished to say goodbye. She and her sisters had held hands and walked into her grandmother’s room. Her grandmother had seemed to be sleeping with her prayer book in her hands and her favourite miniature of her husband placed against the book.