No Good Duke Goes Unpunished

by Sarah MacLean

  She hadn’t seen him then. Not really. But now she did. And now she wanted him to see her. She needed it. She needed to explain everything to him. She needed to make him see the truth.

  Her truth.

  But he did not wake except to struggle and fret when they washed the wound with near-boiling water, the discomfort enough to rouse him into some new layer of consciousness, where he seemed unable to do anything but ask, over and over, “Why?”

  She answered him quietly, not wanting the others to hear what she said—what she promised—answers, and truth and even vengeance, hoping that something she said would bring him back from wherever it was his mind had gone, before the others decided that she and the countess were mad and sent for the cruel man who called himself a doctor.

  The countess had become her one ally, seeming to understand after several hours of ministrations that Mara shared her goal.

  All their goals.

  More.

  The door to the room opened, and two women entered, one plain and proper, clearly a lady, and the other large and aproned, carrying a teapot. The lady’s gaze found Bourne’s across the room, and she flew to him, landing in his strong embrace. He crushed her to him and pressed his face to the crook of her neck as she wrapped her arms about his head, threading her fingers into his dark locks and whispering to him.

  Mara was torn between gaping at the display—so incongruous with the man with whom she had interacted—and looking away from the deeply emotional moment.

  When he finally pulled away, his unpleasant personality returned. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  The lady did not seem to register the tone. “You should have summoned me yourself. I should not have to receive word from Pippa.” She paused, her fingers coming to his cheek. “What happened to your eye?”

  “Nothing.” He looked away, and so did Mara, her gaze falling to Pippa, standing at Temple’s other side, watching her.

  “It’s not nothing, Michael.”

  “It’s fine.” He caught her hand and pressed a kiss to her fingertips.

  “Who hit you?”

  The countess’s lips twitched. Mara willed her to stay quiet. Luck was not on her side. “Miss Lowe hit him.”

  The plain woman pulled herself up to her full height and looked to Pippa. “Who is Miss Lowe?”

  Pippa pointed at Mara, who wished she could disappear. “She is.”

  The other woman faced her, gaze tracking her bloodied dress and haphazard hair and no doubt haggard face before landing on Mara’s right hand, which had dealt the blow.

  One blond brow rose. “I suppose he deserved it?”

  Shock had her meeting the lady’s eyes. “He did, rather.”

  The lady nodded. “It happens.” She turned back to Bourne.

  “I most certainly did not deserve it.”

  She raised a brow. “Have you apologized?”

  “Apologized!” he sputtered. “She hit me. On her way to kill Temple.”

  Mara opened her mouth to protest, but the woman did not give her a chance to finish her sentence. “Miss Lowe, have you plans to kill Temple?”

  It was the first time anyone had thought to ask the question. Mara told the truth. “No.”

  The woman nodded, and returned her attention to Bourne. “Then my husband no doubt deserved it.”

  Bourne’s gaze narrowed as Mara registered the meaning of the words. This woman was the Marchioness of Bourne, and willing to stand up to the horrible man without hesitation. Surely she should be sainted.

  “You should not be here,” Bourne grumbled.

  “Why not? I’m a member and married to one of the owners of the club.”

  “This is no place for a woman in your condition.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. I am increasing, Michael, not infirm. Pippa is here.” The marchioness indicated the countess, who was, indeed, with child.

  “It is not my fault that Cross does not love his wife the way I love mine.”

  Cross raised a brow at the words before looking seriously to Pippa. “I love you a great deal.”

  “I know,” Pippa said, and Mara wondered at the simplicity in the words. The countess’s perfect understanding that she was loved.

  She imagined what it would be like to be loved with such certainty. Her gaze flickered to the man on the table. To his strong jaw and long arms, and the hand that lay flat against the wood, palm curved and empty. She wondered what it would be like to slide her hand into that space. To fill it.

  To love and be loved.

  Mara returned her attention to the Marchioness of Bourne, whose attention remained fixed on her husband. “Michael,” she said softly, “Temple is as much mine as any of yours.”

  The woman turned to face Temple’s still form, and worry etched her brow as she reached for him, her fingers grazing his good shoulder before pushing dark hair from his brow. Bourne came to stand with his wife, pulling her tight against his side, anger and pain etched on his handsome face.

  “Good God,” she whispered, leaning into her husband’s embrace.

  “He will live.” The words were harsh, torn from Bourne’s throat, equal parts will and worry.

  Something tightened in Mara’s chest as she watched the tableau. This man—whose life she’d toyed with—she hadn’t ruined him. He had dozens who cared for him, friends who would go to any lengths to save him.

  How long had it been since someone had worried for her? How long since she’d dreamed of it?

  How long since she’d deserved it?

  She did not like the answer that threatened.

  She turned to the woman with the teapot. “Is that the tepid tea?”

  The woman nodded, her own gaze glassy as she watched Temple. “Oui. I brewed it myself.”

  “Thank you, Didier,” Pippa said as Mara took the pot and poured the brown liquid into a tumbler she pulled from a nearby decanter of scotch.

  “I hope there’s some magic in that brew. Lord knows he could use it,” said the marchioness.

  “Willow bark,” the countess replied. “It’s said to fight fever.”

  “Which he does not seem to have, would that it would remain as such,” Mara added, looking to Cross. “Help me lift his head. We must try to get him to drink.”

  Cross came forward, and he and Asriel lifted Temple’s limp body to a seated position. Mara righted his lolling head, tipping the liquid into his mouth by the teaspoonful. “You’ve got to drink if you’re going to heal,” she said firmly after several unsuccessful attempts.

  Trying again, she lost another batch of liquid down his chin and chest, along with her patience. He would drink if she had to force the tea down his throat. She tipped the liquid in. “Swallow, damn you.”

  His eyes flipped open, alert and bright, and he sputtered against the flow of tea, a lukewarm spray covering her face and neck as she squeaked her surprise and his partners swore their disbelief.

  Temple coughed, his black gaze finding hers as he pushed the glass away. “Christ,” he said, the words harsh in his throat. “Haven’t you tried to kill me enough?”

  The words elicited a low, reverent curse from Bourne and a wide grin from Cross. Relief came quick and nearly overwhelming to Mara . . . and she closed her eyes against tears and laughter for a moment, collecting herself before moving to bring the glass to his lips once more.

  He shook his head, holding her hand at bay. “Who made that swill?” He looked to the woman who’d brought the pot in. “Didier?”

  The Frenchwoman came forward, tears of relief in her eyes. “Oui, Temple. Je l’ai fait.” She nodded again. Found her English. “Yes. I made it.”

  He looked to Mara, wariness in his gaze. “And you didn’t touch it?”

  She shook her head, finding her tongue. “Only to pour it.”

  He pushed the gl
ass to her. “Drink.”

  Her brows furrowed. “I don’t—”

  “You drink it first.”

  Understanding dawned, and then she did laugh, the sound light and foreign and remarkably welcome. As welcome as his black gaze, free of hallucination.

  Something lit in those handsome eyes, and he pushed the glass toward her again. “Drink it, Mara.”

  Her name was beautiful on his lips.

  “What on—” the Marchioness of Bourne stepped forward, stayed by Bourne. She turned on her husband. “It’s preposterous.”

  “It’s Temple’s choice.”

  He didn’t trust her.

  He was conscious enough to mistrust her.

  She lifted the glass to her mouth and tossed the liquid back before opening her mouth and sticking her tongue out wide at him. “I am not in the market to poison you today.”

  He watched her carefully. “Good.”

  She ignored the pleasure that coursed through her at the word, turning instead to refill the glass. “That is not to say that you do not drive a woman to consider it.”

  His hand met hers, guiding the tea to his lips. “Another day, then.”

  She wanted to smile. Wanted to say a dozen different things. Things he wouldn’t hear. Things he wouldn’t believe.

  Things she couldn’t say.

  So she settled on: “Drink, you great ox.”

  And he did, the whole glass. When she began to move away, he clasped her hand in an unyielding grip, his skin somehow warm despite his shocking loss of blood. Her gaze flew to his.

  “You made me a promise.”

  She stiffened at the words. “I did. I said I would return to Society. Prove you not a killer.”

  “I’m not talking about that promise.”

  She looked to him. “What then?”

  “You promised me answers. You promised me truth.”

  Her blood roared in her ears. She had not imagined that he could hear her as she’d nursed him. As she’d whispered to him, fear and hope warring for control of her words. “You remember.”

  “My memory is a rare thing when it comes to you, I know.” He drank again. “But you will tell me the truth about that night. You will keep your promises.”

  Promises for vengeance. For truth. As long as he lived.

  And here he was, alive.

  She nodded. “I shall honor them.”

  “I know,” he said.

  And then he slept.

  Three mornings later, Temple sank into the brutally hot water in the great brass bathtub that had been custom built for his post-fight ablutions at The Fallen Angel.

  He hissed at the pain that shot down his left arm when he lifted it, careful to keep his bandaged wound from the bath, not wanting to give the as yet unhealed injury any reason to return him to fever or infirmary. He rolled his shoulder tentatively, grimacing as he leaned back into the curved brass, resting his head on the lip of the bath.

  He let out a long sigh, and closed his eyes, letting the steam and the heat engulf him, taking his thoughts with them.

  Most of his thoughts.

  Thoughts that did not include her, with her pretty, soft hair and her strange, irresistible eyes and her strength beyond measure. Thoughts that did not make him question just why she had done what she’d done so many years ago. What she had done that night in the ring. Whether she’d aided her brother in his quest. Whether she’d passed him the knife that had ended up in Temple’s breast.

  Thoughts that did not make him remember the kindness with which she had washed his wound the morning he’d regained consciousness. The way she’d served him tea. The way she’d healed him. Thoughts that did not have him wondering what it would be like to have that kindness again. More frequently.

  Or worse, what that kindness meant.

  He swore harshly in the quiet, steam-filled room.

  He did not want her kindness. He wanted her remorse. Her repentance. Did he not?

  He moved his arm carefully, disliking the twinge of pain that came with the motion. Disliking the way his arm seemed to be trapped in sand when he used it. Disliking the fear that came with thoughts of the limitation.

  The feeling would come back. The strength, too.

  It had to.

  A memory flashed, fresh from the evening of the fight—Mara at the edge of the ring, meeting his gaze, terror in her large eyes. He’ll kill you! She’d called out to him. Warned him, but he’d been so damn transfixed by the worry in her gaze—by the thought that she might care for him—that he hadn’t understood the words until the knife was in his chest.

  Until later.

  Until he’d danced in and out of consciousness and her voice had whispered promises in his ear.

  You will live.

  You will live, and I will tell you everything.

  He had lived.

  And she would tell him the truth about that night and her decision to run. She would tell him why she’d chosen him. Why she’d punished him.

  Why she’d stolen his life. And how she would give it back to him.

  “Do you know what you’re about?”

  He did not show his surprise at the intrusion, even as his heart beat slightly faster at the realization that someone had entered the room without his notice.

  “I don’t doubt you’re going to tell me,” he said, opening his eyes to find Chase at the end of the bathtub. “How long have you been watching me bathe?”

  “Long enough for London’s female half to become quite jealous.” Chase dropped onto a nearby stool and leaned forward, legs spread wide, elbows on knees. “How is the arm?”

  “Painful,” Temple said, fisting the hand of the bad arm and attempting a slow uppercut into the air. “Stiff.”

  He left out other words. Numb. Weak. Useless.

  “It hasn’t been a week; give it time,” Chase said. “You should be abed.”

  Temple shifted in the water, wincing at the way the movement sent a pain through him. “I do not require a keeper.”

  “Nonetheless, every night you are out of the ring is a night we lose money.”

  “I should have known that you weren’t concerned about my well-being.”

  They both knew it wasn’t true, and that Chase would raze London if it would help Temple’s recovery. But they pretended nonetheless. “I’m concerned about your well-being as it relates to my profit margin.”

  Temple laughed. “Ever the businessman.”

  They were quiet for a long moment before Chase spoke again. “We have to discuss the girl.”

  Temple did not pretend not to understand. “Which girl?”

  Chase ignored the stupid question. “She has requested to return to her post.”

  He hadn’t seen her in days—had wanted to recover before he saw her again. He’d wanted his strength back before they did battle again. Before he faced her.

  But he did not want her far from him. He refused to consider the reason why.

  “And the brother?”

  Chase let out a long breath and looked away. “Still missing.”

  “He can’t stay that way forever. He hasn’t any money.”

  “It’s possible the girl funded the plan.” Chase ran a hand through blond locks. “After all, she’s something of an expert at hiding in plain sight.”

  It wasn’t possible. She was too concerned about money. “She didn’t help him.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  Except he did. He had played the fight over again and again. “I saw her at the fight. I saw her try to stop him.” He paused, her whispered promises in his mind. “She saved me. She healed me.”

  “She had little choice.” Chase was ever skeptical.

  Temple shook his head. She hadn’t tried to kill him. He couldn’t believe it. He wouldn’t.


  Chase’s brows rose. “You champion the girl?”

  “No.” Liar. “I simply want to be clear that her punishment is not her brother’s.”

  “And how shall her punishment be meted out?”

  “I need West.” Duncan West, one of the wealthiest members of the club and the owner of half a dozen London papers.

  Chase nodded and stood, understanding Temple’s plan without having to be told more. “Easy enough.”

  So it began.

  Did he want it this way? He’d been so sure. He’d imagined it night after night, this moment where he revealed her to London and took his justice. He imagined her ruined. With no choice but to leave again. To start over. To know what it was that she had done to him.

  But now . . . “It will be on my terms, Chase.”

  Brown eyes went wide with feigned innocence. “Who else’s?”

  “I know how you like to meddle.”

  “Nonsense.” Chase straightened one sleeve, brushing a speck of lint from the cuff. “I merely remind you that women are excellent actresses, Temple. Yours is no different.” Temple resisted the thread of pleasure that coiled through him at the possessive. “She was scandalizing London and causing the biggest distraction the Angel had ever seen minutes before her brother stabbed you. The whole situation stinks of collusion.”

  “Then why didn’t she run, too? Why did she stay?” The questions had rattled through him for days, since he’d woken from stabbing-induced sleep to find her at his bedside looking grateful. Pleased to see him alive.

  Beautiful.

  His.

  No. Not his. Never his.

  “Bourne wasn’t about to let her go,” Chase replied. “The point is, she’s not to be trusted. Your wound isn’t healed, and you’re half the man you were a week ago. Allow her to leave. Asriel will watch her.”

  Temple stiffened at the words, disliking their truth. Disliking his weakness. Disliking the way the idea of anyone watching Mara unsettled him. She was his responsibility. His path to truth. “I can’t risk him losing her.”

  Chase cut him a disbelieving look. “Asriel has never lost a thing in his life.” When Temple did not reply, the founder of The Fallen Angel leaned in. “Christ. Don’t tell me you’re after her.”