Moonlight Masquerade by Kasey Michaels Page A

more! We were strolling in the snow, nothing more. Please let
me enjoy your company,” she begged fiercely, pressing her face
against his chest.
    He stood his ground, not touching her. “This
was never a simple stroll, Christine. From the first, our times
together have never been simple. Last night taught me that you have
the right to know who, and what, you are dealing with when you dare
to be with me.”
    “No! Whatever happened to you, whatever
great sin you think you are guilty of, you are different now than
you were before—I’m sure of it. You have to stop hiding yourself
away like some terrible criminal. Surely you have been punished
enough?”
    Vincent’s large hand cupped the side of her
face, his fingers laced through her hair. “I had begun to think so,
Christine, until you landed on my doorstep. Now I believe my
punishment has only just begun.”
    She wanted his arms around her, but he
continued to hold her loosely, denying her his strength. Slowly, as
they stood in silence, she gathered her own courage and voiced her
private conclusions as to why he hid his face from her, from the
world. “You have been injured in some way, haven’t you, Vincent?
The left side of your face, I imagine, as you are always so careful
to keep it averted from me. Were you in a duel?”
    She could feel him taking a deep breath,
then releasing it in a shuddering sigh. His voice, when he spoke,
was deadly cold and emotionless. “I killed a woman, Christine. I
loved her, and my love killed her, and her brother quite rightly
took a horsewhip to me. When he was done my left arm was nearly
severed and my face—my face was cut.”
    She lifted her face away from his chest to
look up into his eyes. He was staring straight through her, as if
she had already turned away from him. She could feel her head begin
to slowly move back and forth, silently contradicting what she had
heard.
    His physical scars, no matter how terrible
they might prove to be, were secondary now. What was left of his
physical beauty was more than enough for a half dozen men. It was
the injury to his soul that was causing her this almost unbearable
pain. She had to prove that his scars didn’t matter to her. “I
don’t believe it. It must have been an accident. The brother was
wrong. You could never hurt anyone, especially someone you loved.
Please, Vincent, don’t hide from me anymore.”
    She knew what she had to do. When he didn’t
move away from her, didn’t refuse her request, Christine slid both
hands slowly up his chest to touch the muffler that he had employed
to hide himself from her. He still didn’t resist, but only
continued to stare through her, his eyes devoid of emotion, as if
preparing himself to deal with the disgust his face would
cause.
    Swallowing hard, her fingers trembling,
fearful of what she would see, she pulled the soft wool away,
baring his face to her in the brilliant sunlight.
    There were three scars. Three long, thin,
white lines that mocked the perfection of his face and throat. One
seemed to trace the line of his jaw almost lovingly, to fade just
below the center of his chin. The second scar stretched from the
center of his cheekbone to the corner of his mouth, while the third
began just beneath his ear, to disappear into the collar of his
shirt.
    Once, they must have been terrible. Once,
they would have been deep, and red, and very, very painful. Now
they were faded, almost attractive, as they lent a rakish maturity
to his youthful good looks.
    Yet, as she stole a quick look into
Vincent’s eyes, she knew that he didn’t, couldn’t, see his scars
that way. To him they were still as they had been, raw, and
ugly—and a constant outward reminder of the heartbreak that had
caused them to be carved there in the first place.
    She wanted to weep for him, but she knew he
wouldn’t understand. He would think she pitied him.
    She wanted to rail at him for his terrible
self-inflicted punishment that far outstripped any revenge that