Spring Blossom by Jill Metcalf Page B

gazing into her
ice-blue eyes. “I am considering withdrawing the comment at any
rate,” he said after a moment’s reflection. “True beauty is not
found only on the surface.” With that he turned to his host. “I
believe you mentioned a drink earlier, my friend,” he said in a
voice that sounded more steady than he felt.
    Embarrassed by his daughter’s behavior,
Alastair cleared his throat, obviously unsettled by the
confrontation that had taken place between his eldest daughter and
his guest. “Yes! Yes, of course.”
    As Hunter followed his host across the room
he wondered if he had reacted too harshly, but after brief
consideration, decided he had not. His only regret was the dead
silence that now hung over the room; the younger girls were
obviously uncomfortable with what had taken place.
    The scar was a damned shame, he admitted to
himself, an unsightly interference with perfection, but it was made
ugly only by the way Maggie drew attention to it.
    The mark ran jaggedly along her right jaw
line for a length of approximately two inches. It was pink in
comparison to her complexion, but not livid as it would have been
when new. In truth, it did little to mar her exquisite beauty.
    Now he believed Maggie felt the scar was a
bigger issue and that is why she had plotted to put him off
guard.
    “I must apologize for Margaret’s behavior,”
Alastair murmured as he prepared their drinks.
    “Margaret is no longer a child, Alastair.
She should apologize for her own behavior.” Cocking his head
slightly to one side, Hunter smiled ruefully at the older man. “But
somehow I don’t believe that happens often,” he added softly.
    Alastair looked briefly across the room to
his eldest daughter as he shook his head. “No," he said. “But it is
not a minor blemish in her eyes, you see.”
    “I’m sure it’s not.”
    “In the beginning I was relieved that
Margaret was not going to hide herself away in embarrassment and
shrink from others. Still, I have never seen her act quite so
hostile. I do apologize.”
    The man’s voice was tinged with regret and
almost unbearable sadness. Hunter had the distinct impression his
host was afraid to challenge his own child and wondered at this
attitude. But that was really no business of his, he decided. If
Alastair could not discipline his children that was his own
problem, but he need not expect Hunter to stand meekly by and allow
Margaret Downing to make him a fool. She had caught him unaware
once; she would not have a second chance to do so.
    And still he wondered about the old Maggie.
Surely she existed somewhere?
    *
    Across the room, Margaret was collecting
herself. He was arrogant, she decided. Why had she not seen that
all those years ago? He was obviously not a gentleman, and she
wondered how she could ever have thought of him as one. On the
heels of that thought, she scoffed at herself. Most men were not
gentlemen. They only presented a display of manners when they were
guests in someone else’s home. Although Hunter was no gentleman, at
least he was more brave then most. Others she had met had shriveled
in embarrassment and revulsion upon seeing her for the first time,
and it gave her some satisfaction to see them squirm. After all,
they were the reason she was disfigured.
    Margaret closed her eyes briefly as she took
a small sip of sherry, trying to blot out the next thought.
Thoughts about the true nature of men and what she had learned. She
made certain the same beliefs were echoed in her thoughts every day
in the hope that she would be totally convinced of them. But the
exercise was always ruined by a remembered childhood dream and a
hollow, empty feeling she could only describe as an ache somewhere
in the vicinity of her heart.
    She knew she must keep trying to convince
her stubborn mind that a liaison with a member of the opposite sex
was not at all desirable, that such relationships were not at all
like the dreams she’d had as a girl.
    She glared across the room