He pulled himself to full height. “I defended the title of Britain’s heavyweight champion for four years. If there’s anything living in that passage, it should be frightened.”
“Ah, yes. I suppose even the spiders will scatter at their first sight of the Devil’s Own.”
He looked at her, surprised. “Where’d you hear that name?”
“Oh, I know all the things they call you. Brawlin’ Brandon. Lord of Ruin. The Devil’s Own.”
“You’ve been following my career,” he said. “What business does a proper, well-bred young lady have, following the world of illegal prizefighting?”
She was suddenly, unaccountably nervous. “It’s not that I follow you. I follow the newspapers. You’re often in them.”
Clio had always paid close attention to current events. And to world history, geography, languages, and more. Her mother had insisted. A diplomat’s wife needed to be apprised of all the world’s happenings.
Strictly speaking, a diplomat’s wife probably didn’t need to be apprised of all the happenings in underworld boxing, but Clio hadn’t been able to resist.
Rafe had always been such a source of fascination to her. In the middle of their polite, manicured garden square of a society, there had grown this wild, rebellious vine that refused to be tamed. She wanted to understand him. She wanted to know why he’d walked away from that world, and where he’d gone, and whether he was happy there.
Caring about Rafe Brandon seemed a dangerous habit, but it was one she couldn’t seem to quit.
“Speaking of names,” he said, “since when do you go by ‘dumpling’?”
She winced. “Since Daphne married, and her husband decided to give his new sisters-in-law pet names. Phoebe is kitten, and I’m dumpling.”
“Stupid name.”
“I can’t disagree. But I don’t know how to tell him to cease using it, either.”
“I’ll tell you how. Just say, ‘Don’t call me dumpling.’ ”
It wasn’t so easy. Not for her. She moved to enter the passageway. “Are we going to follow this tunnel or not?”
He held her back. “This time, I’ll lead the way.”
She handed him the lamp. They ducked and entered the tunnel. The way was narrow, and the ceiling was low. Rafe had to hunch and twist to thread himself through the smallest spots.
“Why do you do it?” The question tumbled out of her. She asked because he was here, and they were alone—and she could. “Why do you fight?”
His answer was matter-of-fact. “I was cut off with no funds or inheritance. I needed a career.”
“I know that. But surely there are other ways to earn a living. Less violent ways.”
“Ah.” He paused. “I see where this is going. You want to know my secret pain.”
“Secret pain?”
“Oh, yes. My inner demons. The dark current of torment washing away little grains of my soul. That’s what you’re after. You think that if you keep me here in your pretty castle and cosset me with sixteen pillows, I’ll learn to love myself and cease submitting my body to such horrific abuse.”
Clio bit her lip, grateful it was too dark for him to see her blush. If she’d been flamingo pink the other day, she must be fuchsia now. “I don’t know where you get these ideas.”
He chuckled. “From every woman I’ve ever met, that’s where. You’re not the first to try it, and you won’t be the last.”
“How disappointing. Can I at least be the best?”
“Perhaps.” He stopped and twisted around in the tunnel, so that he faced her. “Do you want to know my deep, dark secret, Clio? If I were to unburden my soul to you, could you truly bear it?”
She must have quivered, or shuddered, or something—and he mistook it for a nod of assent.
“Here it is.”
She held her breath as he leaned close to whisper in her ear. The back of her neck prickled. His deep voice resonated in her bones.
“I fight,” he said, “because I’m good at it. And because it makes me money.” He turned away. “That’s the truth.”