The Man Behind the Mask by Maggie Cox Page A

brandy.’
    â€˜I have survived nights like these before without the need for hot drinks or brandy, and I will do so again. Please just do as I say and go back to bed.’
    â€˜All right, then—if you’re sure?’
    Deliberately not meeting her gaze, Eduardo glanced down at his neatly bandaged hand instead and said nothing.
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    Knowing that Eduardo’s already sleep less night had been further disrupted by his accident, Marianne crept round the large, imposing house like a mouse, intent on doing her work as quietly as humanly possible so as not to disturb him. In the kitchen she played the radio at the lowest volume, and closed the door behind her as she prepared and chopped vegetables in readiness for yet another hearty soup for lunch. But occasionally during her work her gaze strayed out of the window to the alluring country views outside that made her heart leap with longing.
    The Siberian winter was starting to abate at last, and every where there were signs that the deep snow was melting. Even as she stood by the sink, peeling carrots into a colander, Marianne heard the steady ‘drip-drip’ of icicles thawing under the eaves. She found herself speculating if Eduardo might invite her to take another walk with him. If he did, she wouldn’t hesitate to say yes, she decided. Perhaps this time they might get a bitfurther than the little wooden bridge over the moat and head off into the forest that she was so longing to explore? The crisp, clean air as well as the exercise would definitely be beneficial.
    What was it that troubled the man so deeply, seeming to steal away any pleasure he might find in simply being alive? she asked herself. She could under stand a young, fit man like him being de pressed about not being able to move as freely as he normally might because of his infirmity, but something told Marianne it wasn’t just his limp that was causing him pain. Occasionally she had observed what she believed to be deep trauma in his arresting blue eyes, and it was starting to seriously disturb her. That, coupled with the lack of personal photographs or anything alluding to his past or where he came from in the house, as well as his propensity for being reclusive, and she was beginning to suspect something dreadful had happened to him…something so dreadful that even his valet Ricardo refused to be drawn about it.
    And now there was another thing that bothered Marianne. Last night in the intimate confines of Eduardo’s room, seeing the distress he’d fought so hard to hide from her and witnessing his pain, she had almost given in to her great desire to reach out and offer him much more human comfort. Holding his hand while she examined the cut he had sustained had been a test of endurance in more ways than one—especially when her hands had been trembling the entire time she tended his wound. She had never been so affected just by being near a man before…as though all this time her senses had been lying dormant and only now had come to life because he walked into a room.
    The idea of being close to Eduardo plunged her into turmoil. She had certainly never experienced such wild, almost painful longing when she had been with dear Donal…but then they had never been intimate. His illness had simply pre vented it. And after he had died Marianne had been glad they had not enjoyed true marital intimacy, because she had started to acknowledge that her feelings for him—although devoted—had in reality been only platonic.
    Frowning at the guilt she’d suffered over that realisation, she reached out to straighten the little terracotta pot of fresh basil on the windowsill, almost jumping out of her skin when the door opened and Eduardo appeared.
    â€˜Good morning,’ he greeted her, his expression disarmingly sheepish. ‘Or perhaps I should say good afternoon? I did not realise I had slept in quite so late. You should have alerted me to the