“Don’t.” The word cut through the air, frigid and frightening. And she realized that now, here, she faced Temple, the greatest fighter London had ever seen. “Don’t you ever call me that again. You don’t have the right.”
Of course she didn’t. She’d stolen the name from him when she’d stolen his life. Tears threatened, and she swallowed them back, not wanting him to think them fabricated. Not wanting him to think her fabricated. She nodded. “Of course.”
He was cold and unmoving, and she couldn’t look at him any longer. She wrapped her arms about herself as he took his final shot. As he ended it. “Tomorrow, this is over. You show your face, you restore my name. I’ll give you your money. And then you get the hell out of my world.”
He left her there, at the center of his ring, in the heart of his club.
It was only once the door to his rooms was closed and the lock thrown that she dressed, and allowed the tears to come.
Chapter 15
He’d left her naked in the ring.
At no point in his entire career as a bare-knuckle boxer had he ever left an opponent so stripped of honor.
He’d never had an opponent so keenly strip him of his dreams.
What rubbish. Temple leaned over the billiard table in one of the upper rooms of The Fallen Angel, sending the carom balls flying.
“Christ, Temple,” Bourne said, watching two balls sink into the pockets at the far end of the field. “Should we leave and let you play on your own?” He tossed back the remainder of his scotch. “And with one arm.”
The mention of his arm, still lacking feeling and weak from the fight, brought back his anger. Her brother had taken his strength. His power. But she’d done one worse. She’d taken his hope.
He’d let himself believe that things could be. That she might be that for which he ached. Wife. Family. More.
Love.
The word whispered through him, part shock, part frustration, part desire.
He ignored it and took another shot with furious precision. And a third.
Cross leaned back on his heels, one long arm dangling over the end of his cue. “All right, it’s clear you’re not interested in the game so much as the win,” he said. “So what is it that is at you?”
“It’s the woman,” Bourne said as he headed across the room to pour himself a glass of scotch.
Of course it was the woman.
Temple ignored the thought and sank another ball.
Cross looked to Bourne. “You think so?”
Bourne passed a glass to Cross. “It’s always the woman.”
Cross nodded. “You are right.”
“He’s not right,” Temple said.
Bourne raised a brow. “I’m right.”
Of course he was right.
Temple scowled. “You can both go straight to Hell.”
“You would miss us if we were gone,” Cross said, finally getting a chance to take a shot. “Besides, I like the woman. It’s fine with me if she’s your problem.”
Bourne cut Cross a look. “You like her?”
“Pippa likes her. Thinks she cares for Temple. I believe her.”
Memory flared. Mara’s eyes liquid with tears as she sat naked in the ring. As he treated her abominably. Temple gritted his teeth.
She had robbed him of his life, then lied to him. Again and again. She didn’t care for him. It was impossible.
Cross was still speaking to Bourne. “And, she took a fist to your face.”
“You needn’t say it with such glee,” Bourne retorted.
“There is glee. You were trounced. By a woman.”
“You’re a bastard,” Bourne grumbled. “And besides, how was I to know she threw a punch like Temple?”
Memory flashed—Mara in the foyer of the MacIntyre Home for Boys, her hand flat against his chest, strong and warm. I don’t wish to hurt you.
Another lie.
Cross interrupted his thoughts. “So, Temple. What have you done wrong?”
A vision flashed, Mara in the center of his ring, begging him to listen to her. What would she have said? What would she have told him?
He pushed the memory aside. When had she ever told him the truth?
Minutes prior.
“Nothing.”
“Oh, that means you’ve definitely done something.” Bourne collapsed into a nearby chair.
“When did the lot of you turn into chattering magpies?”
Cross leaned against the billiard table. “When did you lose your sense of humor?”
The question was not out of bounds. Had it been Bourne or Cross in such a foul temper, Temple would have been the first to ask questions.
Indeed, in the past year, Temple had had the great pleasure of watching both men flirt with insanity as they resisted, then courted their wives. He’d laughed at them more often than not, and been happy to add to their misery.
But while this might involve a woman, this was not about a wife.
This was about absolution. A much more important goal.
“I let her go,” he said, simply.
“Where?” Bourne asked.
“Home.”
“Ah,” Cross said, as though the word explained everything. Which it didn’t.
Temple scowled at the irritating ginger. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Only that when they leave, it’s never as pleasant as you think it will be.”