“We are no such thing.”
He was quiet for a moment, then said, “What if you’d been betrothed to him instead? Then maybe we wouldn’t be in this mess.”
The question stung. What if.
If she had a shilling for every time the words had floated through her head, she’d be the richest woman in London.
The words didn’t help. All they did was fill one’s head with empty dreams.
But still, the words echoed. What if.
What if she’d married him, that handsome young marquess with the wicked smile, who kissed her as though she were the only woman in the world? What if they’d married, and built a life together, with children and pets and kisses trailed down her arm and silly private jests that proved they belonged to one another?
What if they’d loved?
Love.
She turned it around in her mind, considering its curves and angles.
Even now, she didn’t understand it as others did. As she had dreamed of it when she was a child. As she’d mourned it during that wicked month leading up to her wedding, when she’d cried into her pillow and bemoaned the lack of love between her and her ancient fiancé.
But now . . . now, she loved. And it was hard. And it was painful.
And she wished it would go away.
She wished it would stop tempting her with ideas of a different life. Imagining another life was all danger—the fastest way to pain and anguish and disappointment. She lived in reality. Never in dreams.
And still, the thought of that boy twelve years ago . . . of the man now . . .
Of the life they might have had . . . if everything had been different.
“Did you receive my letter?”
She nodded, hot guilt spreading through her. Kit was here. Temple, mere feet away. Even speaking to her brother felt like betrayal of the man who had come to mean so much.
“You understand why I need your help,” Kit said, coming closer, tone all kindness, devoid of the anger no doubt simmering. “I have to leave London. If those bastards find me . . .”
But they weren’t bastards. They were the most loyal men she’d ever met. And Temple—he had the right to be so angry. She’d stolen his life all those years ago, and Kit had nearly taken it from him again.
“Mara,” Kit said, an echo of her father. “I did it for you.”
She hated him then, the younger brother whom she had loved so much. Hated him for his impulsiveness and his recklessness and his stupidity. Hated him for his anger. His coldness. The choices he’d made that impacted them both. That had made her life this elaborate, unbearable mess.
“Don’t you see that he’s done this to you?” Kit said, the words smooth as silk. “The Killer Duke. He’s turned you into his whore, and he’s turned you against me.”
She might have accepted those words as fact at the beginning of all this, but now she knew better.
Somewhere, while he’d taught the boys of MacIntyre’s that vengeance was not always the answer, and protected Lavender from certain death, and saved Mara from attackers, he’d made her love him.
And in that, he’d set her free.
“You think I don’t see it? The way you think of him?” Kit came toward her, disgust in his words. “I see the way you look at him. The way he owns you, the way he manipulates you like a puppet on a string. You don’t care that he took everything from me.”
She didn’t. She cared only that Temple was avenged. That he finally, finally had the life for which he was destined—that perfect wife, those perfect children, the perfect world he’d deserved from birth, and that she’d stolen from him.
The only thing she had to give him.
Tears stung. “Go away, Christopher.” She chose the name purposefully, for he was no longer a child. And she would no longer be blamed by him. “If you are caught, they will punish you.”
“And you won’t stop them.”
Not even if she could. “I won’t.”
He hated her; she could see it in his eyes. “I need money.”
Always money. It was always paramount. She shook her head. “I don’t have anything for you.”
“That’s a lie,” he said, coming toward her. “You’re hiding it from me.”
She shook her head, telling him the truth. “I haven’t anything for you.” Everything she had was for the orphanage. And the rest . . . it was for Temple.
She had no room for this man.
“You owe me. For what I suffered. For what I still suffer.”
She shook her head. “I don’t. I’ve spent twelve years trying to convince myself that what I did was right. Thinking that I hurt you. That I made you.” She shook her head. “But I didn’t. Boys grow. Men make choices. And you should count yourself lucky that I do not scream until half of London comes running and finds you.”
He stilled. “You wouldn’t.”
She thought of Temple, still and wounded on the table in his rooms at the Angel. Thought of the way her chest had ached and her heart had pounded and she’d been terrified that he would not wake.
A centimeter left or right, and Kit would have killed the man she loved.