No Good Duke Goes Unpunished (Page 51)

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 glass 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.

T hree 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.