Beneath the Major's Scars. Sarah Mallory

caught her eye, a glint in his own. ‘Very well, Miss Pentewan, let us put you to the test.’

      ‘What? I—’ She swallowed. ‘Are you sure it is what you want?’

      ‘Are you losing your nerve, madam?’

      Zelah quite thought that she was. Two voices warred within her: one told her that to dine alone with a gentleman who was not related to her was improper enough, but to cut the man’s hair would put her beyond the pale. The other whispered that it was her Christian duty to help him quit his self-imposed exile.

      The glint in his eyes turned into a gleam. He was laughing at her and her courage rose.

      ‘Not at all. Let us do it!’

      ‘Major, are you quite sure you want me to do this?’

      He was sitting on a chair by the table and Zelah was standing behind him, comb in hand. They had rearranged the candelabra to give the best light possible and the dark locks gleamed, thick and glossy around his head, spreading out like ebony across his shoulders. The enormity of what she was about to do made her hesitate.

      The major waved his hand.

      ‘Yes. I may change my mind when I am sober, but for now I want you to cut it.’

      Zelah took a deep breath. It was too late to go back now, they had agreed. Besides, argued that wickedly seductive voice in her head, no one need ever know. She picked up the scissors and moved closer until her skirts were brushing his shoulder. It felt strange, uncomfortable, like standing over a sleeping tiger. Thrusting aside such fanciful thoughts, she took a secure grip of the scissors and began. His hair was like silk beneath her fingers. She lifted one dark lock and applied the scissors. They cut through it with a whisper. As she continued her confidence grew, as did the pile of black tresses on the floor.

      His hair was naturally curly and she had seen enough pencil drawings of gentlemen with their hair à la Brutus since she had arrived at West Barton to recreate the style from memory—Reginald and Maria might live in a remote area of Exmoor, but they were both avid followers of the ton, receiving a constant stream of periodicals and letters from friends in London advising them of the latest fashions. She cut, combed and coaxed the major’s hair into place. It needed no pomade or grease to make it curl around his collar and his ears. She brushed the tendrils forwards around his face, as she had seen in the fashion plates. Her fingers touched the scar and he flinched. Immediately she drew back.

      ‘Did I hurt you?’

      ‘No. Carry on.’

      Carefully she finished her work, combing and snipping off a few straggling ends until she was satisfied with the result. It was not strictly necessary, but she could not resist running her fingers though his glossy, thick hair one final time.

      ‘There.’ She brushed the loose hair from his shoulders. ‘It is finished.’

      ‘Very well, Delilah, let us see what you have done to me.’

      He picked up one of the candelabra and walked over to a mirror.

      Zelah held her breath as he regarded his image. In the candlelight the ugly gash down his face was still visible, but it seemed diminished by the new hairstyle. The sleek black locks were brushed forwards to curl about his wide brow, accentuating the strong lines of his face.

      ‘Well, Miss Pentewan, I congratulate you. Perhaps you should not be looking for a post as a governess, after all. You should offer your services as a coiffeuse.’

      Relief made her laugh out loud. She said daringly, ‘You look very handsome, Major.’

      He turned away from the mirror and made a noise between a growl and a cough.

      ‘Aye, well, enough of that. It is time I sent you back to the sick room, madam. You will need to be up betimes.’

      ‘Yes, of course.’ She cast a conscience-stricken look at the clock. ‘Poor Hannah has been alone with Nicky for hours.’ She held out her hand to him. ‘Goodnight, sir. I hope we shall see you in the morning before we leave?’

      Again that clearing of the throat and he would not meet her eyes.

      ‘Perhaps. Goodnight, Miss Pentewan.’ He took her hand, his grip tightening for a second. ‘And thank you.’