No Good Duke Goes Unpunished (21 page)

If only he would realize that Mara did not wish it, either.

“Give him the night,” she begged. “Twelve hours to present a fever—an infection of any kind—and then let your barber at him.”

The doctor’s eyes went wide at the insulting words, and Mara would have laughed if she weren’t so desperate to keep the man and his cruel contraption from Temple. “I wouldn’t treat him now if you tripled my fee.”

Mara hated the man then, so similar he was to the myriad of London doctors who had poked and prodded and pronounced her mother untreatable. They’d left her to die, even as Mara had begged her father to push them. To find someone who would treat her with something other than leeches and laudanum.

Even as he’d ignored her and left her without control.

Bourne spoke, the irony not lost upon her that the marquess was attempting to calm the surgeon’s temper. “Doctor. Please. Twelve hours is not so very long.”

“Twelve hours could kill him. If he dies, it’s on your females’ hands.”

“My hands,” Mara said, meeting the marquess’s eyes, noticing the ring around the right one, now shiny and black, which would not endear her to him. She was amazed he did not look away. “His blood is on my hands. Let me clean it off.”

It was the closest she would come to begging him.

Close enough.

She would never know why, but Bourne looked to Cross, then back to her. “Twelve hours.”

Relief coursed through her, and she was tempted to apologize to the supercilious marquess. Almost.

“I shan’t be back,” the doctor said, acid in his tone.

She was already wringing hot water from a clean cloth. “We shan’t need you.”

The door closed behind him, and the marquess extracted a watch from his pocket. “Twelve hours begins now.” He looked to Cross. “Chase shall have our heads for letting him leave.”

The words did not make sense to Mara, but she was too focused on Temple to care to understand, instead speaking to the countess. “We must do what we can to stave off a fever.”

Pippa nodded once and moved away, heading for the door to call for more cloths and fresh water.

Mara looked down at Temple’s still face, taking in the dark slash of brows, the crooked line of his once-patrician nose, the scars at his brow and lip, the cut from the earlier fight that evening that now ran black across one cheek, and regret bloomed, tight and high in her chest.

She’d done all this to him, she thought, pressing the linen to his brow, hating his stillness.

Now she would save him.

Chapter 13

T
hey lied, those who told stories of death and filled them with choirs of angels and a sense of utter, irresistible peace.

There were no angels. There was no peace.

At least, not for Temple.

There was nothing that tempted him toward bright, comforting light, nothing that gave him solace as pain burned through him, threatening his thought and breath.

And the heat. It burned like fire through his chest and down his arm, shooting into his hand as though they’d set the limb aflame. He couldn’t fight it—they held him down and forced him to take it. As though they enjoyed it.

It was the heat that made him realize he was on the edge of Hell.

His angels did not come from above; they came from below, and they tempted him to join them. His angels were the fallen ones. And they did not speak in melodic hymns.

Instead, they swore and cursed and willed him to them with temptation and threat. Promising him everything he’d loved in life—women and fine scotch and good food and better sport. They promised him he’d reign again if only he joined them. Their voices were myriad—rough cockney accents, and deep aristocratic ones, and women. The women whispered to him, promising him immense pleasure if only he’d follow them.

By God, he was tempted.

And then there was she.

The one who seemed to whisper most harshly. The one who bordered on berating him. The one who spoke the words that called to him more than any of the other pretty promises.

Words like
revenge
. And
power
. And
strength
.

And duke
.

Of course, he hadn’t been a duke in a very long time.

Not since he’d killed his father’s bride.

Something tickled at the edge of his consciousness at that, something that ebbed and flowed as he heard the others whispering around him, calling to him.
It’s only a matter of time.

He can’t hear us. He can’t fight it.

He’s lost too much . . .

And he had. He’d lost his name and his family and his history and his life. He’d lost the world into which he’d been born . . . the world he’d enjoyed so damn much.

But every time he was tempted by the darkness, he heard her.

He will fight. He will live.

Her voice wasn’t kind or angelic. It was strong as steel, and it made prettier promises than any of the others. It would not be ignored.

Bollocks to them.

You’re stronger than any of them by half.

Your work isn’t done. Your life isn’t over.

But it was, wasn’t it? Hadn’t it been over for years? Hadn’t it been over since the day he’d woken in that bloody bed, his father’s fiancée dead at his hands?

He’d killed her.

He’d killed her with his giant fists and his unnatural strength and God knew what else. He’d murdered her, even as he’d murdered everything his life could have possibly been. He’d killed her, and now he was here, dying—finally, finally getting what he deserved.

It was said that at death, one’s life flashed before one’s eyes. Temple had always liked the idea of that, not to remember his childhood on the great estate in Devonshire, but to remember that night. The one that had changed everything.

Somewhere, in the dark recesses of his mind, he’d always thought that this moment, when he hovered on death, he’d be shown that night. The night that had sealed his fate. The night that had promised him entry into Hell.

But even now, he couldn’t remember it, and he wanted to roar his frustration. “Why?”

He didn’t hear his whisper echo in the room.

All he heard was his angry fallen angel taunting him with wicked lies, even as he slipped into delirium.

Because you will live, Temple.

You will live, and I will tell you everything.

She was there, the girl from that night—the pretty, laughing girl dancing away from him in the gardens, and rising over him on crisp linen sheets, all silken hair and smooth skin and eyes that haunted him.

She was there, with the line of boys, dark-haired with eyes like jewels.

She was there, her touch cool in the darkness, her promises tempting him away from the light. Back to her.

Back to life.

She was saving him.

H
ours passed and he did not wake, even as he grew more fitful in his sleep—straining against the treatment every time they flushed the wound with hot water.

Mara was shuttled to and from the room, allowed near him only when it was time to clean the wound or change its dressing. Each time she entered, there were new people keeping vigil. Bourne and Cross and Pippa remained constant, joined once the last gamer left by the men who worked the tables of the Angel, dealers and croupiers, and followed by the women who worked the floor of the club—a steady stream of weeping maids and worried companions and who knew what else.

The blonde called Anna, whom Mara had met in the strange windowed room, arrived, her work complete, and Mara watched from the corner of her eye as the prostitute kept quiet vigil over Temple for long minutes, her fingers stroking the tattooed skin of his arms, tracing the cords of his muscles, holding one strong hand as she whispered in his ear.

It occurred that she might be Temple’s paramour, what with the way she’d spoken of him in the dark, mirrored room. With the way all the women had panted and leered over him, he no doubt had a string of women. And this one was beautiful enough to be the general of his petticoated army.

Long, slender fingers trailed over smooth skin, perfectly filed nails worrying the hair of his arms in a gesture that could not be misread. This woman knew Temple. Cared for him. Was comfortable touching him as he lay still and naked in the dark.

Mara looked away, hating her. Hating herself for the hot jealousy that coursed through her. For not telling him everything when she had the chance. For not trusting him.

For tormenting him, when he had done nothing to deserve it.

She kept her head down as she cared for him, flushing and cleaning and packing his wound, mopping his brow, and feeling for his blessedly strong, steady heartbeat. Someone had covered him with a blanket and placed a pillow beneath his head—a concession to comfort even as they feared moving him from the table, as though the scarred oak had some kind of life-giving property.

Mara grew more and more concerned as day gave way to dusk in the world beyond the casino, and he remained still. Bourne threatened to call another doctor but during one of her exiles, the elusive Chase apparently sided with Pippa and gave them the night to bring Temple back to consciousness.

Chase was gone before Mara returned to the room for another round of wound cleaning and dressing, but his words were gospel to the others.

When she was near Temple, she spoke to him, desperate to wake him, to bring him back to consciousness. Desperate for him to open his eyes and see.

Sometimes, I think you do see me.

Words whispered in the darkness on a London street.

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.