Sarah MacLean - No Good Duke Goes Unpunished

But it wasn’t every day that he was surprised.

And the chit behind him was nothing if not surprising.

She was close enough to hear her breath, fast and shallow—the telltale sign of energy and fear. As though she were new at this. As though she were the victim.

And perhaps she was.

She was a yard from him. A foot. Six inches before he turned, reaching for and catching her by the wrists, pulling her close—the realization that she was unarmed coming on a wave of warmth and lemon scent.

She wasn’t wearing gloves.

He barely had time to register the fact before she gasped, going utterly still for a split second before first tugging at her wrists and, once discovering them caught in his strong grip, struggling in earnest.

She was taller than most, and stronger than he expected. She didn’t cry or call out, instead using all her breath, all her strength, to fuel her attempt to extricate herself, which made her smarter than most of the men he’d met in the ring.

She was no match for him, however, and so he held her. Tight and firm, until she gave up.

He rather regretted that she gave up.

But she did, realizing the futility of her actions after a long moment . . . hesitating briefly before she turned her face up to his and said, “Release me.”

There was something in the words, a quiet, unexpected honesty that almost made him do it. Almost made him let her go, to run off into the night.

Almost.

But it had been a long time since he’d been so intrigued by an opponent.

Pulling her closer, he easily transferred both her wrists into one of his hands as he used the other to check her cloak for weapons.

His hand closed on the hilt of a knife, hidden deep in the lining of the cloak. He extracted it. “No, I don’t think I will.”

“That’s mine,” she said, reaching for the weapon, cursing as he held it out of her reach.

“I don’t care for late-night meetings with armed attackers.”

“I’m not armed.”

He raised a brow.

She exhaled harshly. “I mean, I am armed, of course. It’s the dead of night and anyone with the sense of a trout would be. But I have no intention of stabbing you.”

“And I’m simply to take your word for it?”

Her words came straight and true. “If I wanted to stab you, you’d have been stabbed.”

He cursed the darkness and its secrets, wanting to see her face. “What are you after?” He asked softly, sliding the knife into his boot, “My pockets? You should have picked a smaller mark.” Though he wasn’t exactly sorry that she’d chosen him. He liked it.

Even more when she answered.

“I’m after you.”

The response was quick enough to be true, and to shock the hell out of him.

Wariness flared. “You’re not a lightskirt.”

The words were not a question. It was clear the woman wasn’t a whore—in the way she stiffened in response to his statement, keeping space between them.

She wasn’t comfortable with a man’s touch.

With his touch.

She redoubled her efforts to free herself. “Is that all people want from you? Your purse or your—” She stopped, and Temple resisted the urge to laugh. She most certainly was not a prostitute.

“The two options are usually enough for women.” He stared into her dark face, wishing for a street lamp. For a shadow of light from a nearby window. “All right, darling, if not my purse or my . . .” He trailed off, enjoying the way her breath caught before he finished. She was curious. “ . . . prowess, what then?”

She took a deep breath, its weight falling between them, as though what she were about to say would change her world. Would change his. He waited, barely noticing that his breath held, as well.

“I’m here to challenge you.”

He let her go and turned away, irritation and frustration and not a small amount of disappointment flaring. She hadn’t come for him as a man. She’d come for him as a means to an end. Just as they always did.

Her boots clattered on the cobblestones as she ran after him. “Wait.”

He did not wait.

“Your Grace—” The title cut through the darkness. Stung. She wouldn’t get anywhere with such good manners. “Hold a moment. Please.”

It might have been the softness in the word. It might have been the word itself—one the Killer Duke did not often hear—that stopped him. Turned him back. “I don’t fight women. I don’t care who your lover is. Tell him to find his manhood and come after me himself.”

“He doesn’t know I’m here.”

“Perhaps you should have told him. Then he might have stopped you from making the rash and reckless decision to stand in the dead of night in the middle of a dark alley with a man widely believed to be one of the most dangerous in Britain.”

“I don’t believe that.”

Something flared deep in him at the words. At the truth in them. And for the briefest of moments, he considered reaching for her again. Taking her to his town house.

It had been a long time since a woman had intrigued him.

Sanity returned. “You should believe it.”

“It’s nonsense. It has been since the beginning.”

His gaze narrowed on her. “Go home and find yourself a man who cares enough to save you from yourself.”

“My brother lost a great deal of money,” she said, her words clear in the darkness, tinged at the same time with proper education and an East London edge. Not that he cared about her accent. Or about her.

“I don’t fight women.” There was comfort in the repetition. In the reminder that he had never hurt a woman. Another woman. “And your brother seems smarter than most. I also don’t lose to men.”

“I wish to reclaim the money, nonetheless.”

“I want a number of things that I shan’t have,” he tossed back at her.

“I know. That’s why I’m here. To give them to you.” Something echoed in the words. Strength. Truth. He did not reply, but curiosity had him waiting for her next words. Words that came like a blow. “I am here to propose a trade.”

“So you are a lightskirt, after all?”

He meant to insult her. Failed. She gave a little half laugh in the darkness, the breathy sound more intriguing than he’d like to admit. “Not that kind of trade. And besides, you don’t want me half as much as you want what I can give you.”

The words were a challenge, and he itched to accept it. For there was something in the stupid, brave woman’s words that called to him. That made him consider making whatever idiot trade she was offering.

He focused on her, taking a step toward her, her scent coming warm and welcome. In a moment, he’d caught her in his arms, pressed her chest to his. “I confess, I’ve always liked the combination of beauty and boldness.” He whispered into her ear, loving the way her breath caught in her throat. “Perhaps we can make an arrangement after all.”

“My body is not on the table.”

It was a pity. She was brazen as hell, and one night in her bed might be worth whatever she was after. “Then what makes you think I’m interested in dealing with you?”

She hesitated. A second. Less. But he heard it. “Because you want what I offer.”

“I’m rich as Croesus, love. So if you don’t offer your willing participation in my bed, there’s nothing you have that I can’t get on my own.”

He turned back to the house, going several steps before she called out, “Even absolution?”

He froze.

Absolution.

How many times had the word whispered through his mind? How many times had he tested it, low and quiet on his tongue as he lay in the darkness, guilt and anger his only bedmates?

Absolution.

Something rushed through him, cold and furious, and it took him a moment to understand it. Warning. She was dangerous.

He should walk away.

And yet . . .

He moved to capture her, using the speed for which he was renowned, one strong hand clasping her arm. He ignored her sharp intake of breath and pulled her along the street to a patch of lamplight at the door of his town house.

He lifted one gloved hand to her face, turning her into the light, taking her in—smooth skin gone ruddy in the evening’s frigid air, jaw set firm and defiant. Her eyes wide and clear, filled with honesty.

One blue. One green.

Too strange to be common. Too memorable.

She tried to pull her chin away. His grip tightened, making movement impossible. His question came quick and harsh in the night. “Who is your brother?”

She swallowed. He felt the movement in his hand. In his whole body. An eternity passed while he waited for her reply. “Christopher Lowe.”

The name singed him, and he released her instantly, stepping back from the heat that threatened, thickening his blood and setting his ears to roaring.

Absolution.

He shook his head slowly, unable to stop himself from speaking, “You are . . .” He trailed off and she closed her eyes, unable to meet his gaze. No. He wasn’t having that. “Look at me.”

She straightened, shoulders back, spine stiff. And she met his gaze without shame. Without remorse.

Christ.

“Say it.” Not a request.

“I am Mara Lowe.”

It couldn’t be true.

“You’re dead.”

She shook her head, auburn gleaming red in the light. “I am alive.”

Everything in him stilled. Everything that had simmered for so many years. Everything that he had resisted and loathed and feared. It all went quiet.

Until it roared like Hell itself.

He turned to unlock the door to his flat, needing something to keep him from his anger. The iron locks moved beneath his strength, clicking and sliding, punctuating his harsh breath.

“Your Grace?”

The question brought him back to the world. Your Grace. The title to which he had been born. The title he had ignored for years. His, once more. Bestowed by the one who had stripped him of it.

His Grace, the Duke of Lamont.

He opened the door wide and turned back to face her, this woman who had changed his life. Who had ruined his life.

“Mara Lowe.” The name came out harsh and mangled and coated in history.

She nodded.

He laughed, a single, harsh syllable in the darkness. It was all he could do. Her brow furrowed in confusion. He gave her a quick, mocking bow. “My apologies. You see, it is not every day a killer meets a past kill.”

She raised her chin. “You didn’t kill me.”

The words were soft and strong and filled with a courage he might have admired. A courage he should have hated.

He hadn’t killed her. Emotion came, hard and angry. Relief. Fury. Confusion. A dozen others.

Dear God.

What in hell had happened?

He stepped aside, waving toward the dark hallway beyond the threshold. “In.” Again, not a request.

She hesitated, eyes wide, and for a moment, he thought she would run.

But she didn’t.

Stupid girl. She should have run.

Her skirts brushed against his boots as she moved past him, the touch reminding him that she was flesh and blood.

And alive.

Alive, and his.

As the door closed, clicking locks punctuating the quiet darkness of his home, it occurred to Mara that this could well be the biggest mistake she’d made in her life.

Which was saying something, considering the fact that two weeks after her sixteenth birthday, she’d absconded from her planned wedding to a duke, leaving his son to face false accusations of her murder.

His son, who was no doubt considering turning those false accusations into truth.

His son, who had every right to unleash his fury.

His son, with whom she stood now in an unsettlingly narrow hallway. Alone. In the dead of night. Mara’s heart raced in the confined space, every inch of her screaming to flee.

But she couldn’t. Her brother had made it impossible. Fate had turned. Desperation had brought her here, and it was time she faced her past.

It was time she faced him.

Steeling herself, she turned to do just that, trying to ignore the way his enormous form—taller and broader than any man she’d ever known—loomed in the darkness, blocking her exit.

He was already moving past her, leading the way up a flight of stairs.