His touch stilled as he considered the words, then began anew when he said, “What does that mean?”
She closed her eyes. Leaned into his caress. Told a half truth. “You left me bound by my actions. By the things I’ve done to you.” She stopped, but his touch continued, drawing more words forth. “Not just twelve years ago. The night Kit met you in the ring. Tonight.” She released a long breath, hating the guilt that consumed her over what she’d done that night. She captured the hand of his wounded arm, held it tight in hers. “Tonight, I betrayed you, and you freed me.”
And I love you.
And I could give you the one thing you wanted.
She didn’t say it. Couldn’t.
Was afraid of what would come if she did.
Afraid he might laugh.
Afraid he wouldn’t.
Her eyes opened, finding his, hot and focused on her. “You think too much of me.”
“When was the last time someone thought of you, Mara?” he asked, his fingers sliding free of her scalp, tracing the rise of her cheekbones, the column of her neck, the ridge of her shoulders. “When was the last time someone cared for you? When have you ever allowed it to happen?”
He was mesmerizing. The barely-there touch on her skin, the soft skim of his breath as he spoke. She shook her head.
“When have you ever trusted someone?”
I would never have let him hurt you.
The words that had nearly destroyed her in the ballroom that evening whispered through her. The promise that even then, twelve years earlier, without knowing a thing about her, he would have protected her.
The thought devastated her with its temptation.
She shook her head. “I can’t remember.”
He sighed, pulling her close, setting his lips to her forehead and cheek, to the curve of her jaw and the line of her neck and the corner of her mouth. She turned to him, wanting to kiss him in earnest. Wanting to hide from the overwhelming thoughts he planted in her mind. Wanting to hide from him.
In him.
But he wouldn’t allow it.
“You once asked me how I came by the name Temple.”
She stilled, not certain she wanted the truth now. Not certain she could face it. “Yes.”
“It’s where I slept the night I arrived in London. After my exile.”
Her brow furrowed. “I don’t understand. You slept in a temple?”
He shook his head. “Under one. I slept under the Temple Bar.”
She knew the monument, mere blocks away on the eastern edge of the city, marking the place where the unfortunates of London toiled and lived, and she thought of that bright-faced young man—the one who’d shown her kindness and pleasure—there, alone. Miserable. Terrified.
“Were you—” She tried to find the words to finish the question without insulting him.
His lips twisted in a humorless smile. “Whatever you are thinking . . . the answer is likely yes.”
It was a miracle he could look at her.
It was a miracle he could be near her.
She did not deserve him.
“What happened after the first night?” She asked.
“There was a second, and a third,” he said, working at the buttons of her glove with one skilled hand, doffing the garment with the same efficiency with which he’d donned it. “And then I learned to make my way.”
He slid the silk from her fingers and she immediately placed the hand on his arm, feeling the muscles there bunch and ripple beneath the touch. “You learned to fight.”
He turned his attention to the other glove. “I was big. And strong. All I had to do was forget the rules of boxing that I’d learned at school.”
She nodded. She’d forgotten every rule she’d ever learned as a child in order to survive once she’d run. “They no longer applied.”
He met her gaze as the second glove slid off. “It worked well for me. I was angry, and gentlemen’s rules did little to assuage that. I fought on the streets for two years, taking any fight with money to pay.” He paused, then smiled. “And any number of fights without money to pay.”
“How did you come to the Angel?”
His brow furrowed. “Bourne and I had been friends at school. When he lost everything that was not entailed, he found himself down on his luck, and we decided to form an alliance. He ran dice games. I made sure the losers paid.” She was surprised by the turn of events, and he saw it. “You see? Not so honorable after all.”
“What then?” she prodded, desperate to know the story.
“One night, we went too far. Pushed too hard. And backed a group of men into an unpleasant corner.”
She could imagine. “How many of them?”
He shrugged his good shoulder, his hand sliding down the side of her thigh, distracting her. “A dozen. Maybe more.”
Her attention returned to him. “Against you?”
“And Bourne.”
“Impossible.”
He smiled. “So little faith in me.”
Her brows shot up. “Am I incorrect?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“Then Chase.”