Duke of Midnight (Maiden Lane #6)(73)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

He stopped, his mouth opening wide, as if he were screaming, but no sound emerged.

He bared his teeth and flung back his head, still holding her gaze with those awful eyes. “I peered around the barrel and my father… my father…” He closed his eyes and opened them again as if unable to look away. “He saw me, as he lay there with the blood upon his chest. He saw me hiding and he… he moved his head, just a bit, in a small shake, and he smiled at me. And then the highwayman shot my mother.”

He gulped. “I don’t remember what happened then. I’m told they found me over my parents. All I recall is the stink of gin. That and the blood in my mother’s hair.”

He looked down at his hands, fisting them and opening his fingers again as if they were foreign appendages.

He glanced up at her and somehow he’d come back to himself, contained all that terrible sorrow and anger and fear, enough to make ten strong men fall down like babes. Maximus held it all inside of him and straightened his shoulders, his chin level, and Artemis couldn’t understand it—where he got the strength to hide that awful, bloody wound in his soul—but she admired him for it.

Admired him and loved him.

She felt an answering wound open within her own soul, a kind of faint reflection of all the pain he’d endured, just because she cared for him.

“So you see,” he said quietly, in full possession of himself, even standing completely naked. He was the Duke of Wakefield now as much as when his stood and gave a speech in the House of Lords. “I have to do it myself. Because I caused their deaths, I have to avenge them—and my honor.”

She held out her hands to him, and he approached the bed and sank to one knee before her. “Can you look at me now, knowing what kind of coward I am?”

“My darling,” she said, cupping his face in her hands, “You are the bravest man I know. You were but a boy, then, surely someone else has told you this?”

“I was the Marquess of Brayston, even then.”

“You were a child,” she said. “A willful, silly child who lost his temper. Your father didn’t blame you. He protected you as he lay dying, telling you not to leave your hiding place. Think, Maximus. If you had a child—a son—wouldn’t you give your life for his? Wouldn’t you be glad, even if you died, that he lived?”

He closed his eyes and laid his head in her lap. She ran her palms over his head, feeling the soft bristles beneath her fingers.

After a while she bent and softly kissed his forehead. “Come to bed.”

He rose then and climbed beneath the sheets, pulling her close. She faced away from him, his heavy arm across her waist, and stared into the darkness and waited for sleep.

“YOUR GRACE.”

For a moment, as Maximus swam to consciousness, he thought he’d imagined Craven’s voice. He blinked. Craven was hovering next to his bed.

“Craven,” he said stupidly. “You’re back.”

Craven arched an eyebrow, looking miffed. “I never went away, Your Grace.”

Maximus winced. By the amount of “Your Grace’s” Craven was tossing around, he was still on the outs with his valet. “I didn’t see you about the house.”

“Your Grace doesn’t know all that goes on in this house,” Craven pointed out acidly. “There is a gentleman waiting for you downstairs. He says his name is Alderney.”

“Alderney? At this hour?”

Craven raised both eyebrows at once. “It’s just before noon, Your Grace.”

“Oh.” Maximus sat up, careful not to disturb Artemis. His mind felt muddy, but whatever Alderney had come for must be important.

“I’ve provided your visitor with luncheon and he seems quite content, so I believe you have time to perform your ablutions and make yourself presentable before entertaining him.”

“Thank you, Craven,” Maximus said a little wryly as he rose, nude, from the bed. “You know about Captain Trevillion?”

“Indeed,” Craven replied, back still turned. “I have looked in on the captain and he appears to be resting peacefully. The doctor has sent word he will return this afternoon to see to his patient.”

“Good.” Maximus felt better knowing the captain had survived the night.

Craven cleared his throat. “I couldn’t help but notice that Viscount Kilbourne was no longer in the cellar.”

Maximus stilled, water dripping from his face. “What?”

“He appears to have somehow freed himself from his chain with the help of a mallet and chisel and escaped.” Craven very carefully didn’t look at Artemis, still burrowed beneath the covers.

Maximus had no such qualms, and he noticed that her breathing was too light for sleep. “Craven, I wonder if you might leave us for a moment?”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

Maximus eyed his valet as he turned to the door. “Were you aware that Miss Picklewood returned unexpectedly from the country? She seemed to have information that could only have come from inside this house. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

Craven widened his eyes. “Whatever are you insinuating, Your Grace?”

Maximus gave him a wry look and closed the door behind him.

When he turned back, Artemis was watching him. There was a sorrow in her eyes that sent a chill through his bones.

Perhaps that was why his voice was overloud when he demanded, “You let him out, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” She sat up. “Did you truly expect anything else?”

“I expected you to obey me when I told you that he must remain locked up.”

“Obey.” Her face had gone white and blank, save for the blaze within her eyes.

She was withdrawing and he couldn’t let her. “Yes. I would’ve found a safe place for him—a place away from people he might hurt. You—”

She made a scoffing sound and threw back the covers. Underneath she was nude, her skin rosy and delicious from sleep. “You want me to obey like all your other minions. To fit neatly in the box in which you decide to place me. Can’t you see? I’ll rot in that box. I cannot be contained by your expectations of me.”

He felt the argument spiraling out of his control. He was adept at debate within the House of Lords, but this was no logical political argument—this was emotions laid raw between a man and a woman.

He looked at her helplessly, knowing somehow that this argument encompassed far more than the difficulty of what to do with her brother. “Artemis—”