Lorraine Heath - [Lost Lords of Pembrook 03] (15 page)

Lady Anne revealed her mettle by reaching across and squeezing her husband’s arm. “I fear we must be off.”

Lord Tristan closed his eyes, released a long slow breath. When he opened them, they were once again filled with the teasing glint. “Whether you like it or not, you’re part of the family. I hope you’ll change your mind and join us on the
boat
.” He settled his hat on his dark head. “Pleasure, Miss Chambers.”

Then he and his lady were trotting away as though no dark clouds had been in danger of forming.

“Don’t say anything,” Rafe muttered before turning his horse about and sending it into a lope, back in the direction from which they’d come.

She almost didn’t follow. Only she knew what it was to feel as though she wasn’t wanted. As much as her father had spoiled her, Geoffrey had never embraced her presence. So she urged her mare into a trot, grateful when he slowed his horse to a walk and allowed her to catch up. He was breathing heavier than his gelding. Her father had never spoken harshly to her, had never shown her anger. She didn’t know how to respond to it, how to diffuse it.

“I didn’t much like him,” she finally said.

He jerked his gaze over to her, his brow furrowed deeply. She wondered what he would do if she reached across and smoothed it out. Although considering the distance between them, she’d probably topple from the saddle before she reached him.

“Lord Tristan,” she clarified in case he had doubts.

A corner of his mouth eased up. “You’re loyal, I’ll give you that. But I don’t dislike him.”

“Then why not go on his boat?”

“Ship.” His lips hitched up higher. For a moment she thought he might laugh, but the hint of a smile disappeared. “I’m not like them. Tristan and Sebastian. Sebastian, the duke, he fought in the Crimea. Was gravely wounded trying to save someone. Tristan sailed the seas. I’ve heard he rescued a boy from sharks. They’re good men and I’m not. We have little in common. They’ve moved back into Society, while I inhabit the darkest corners farthest from it.” He kicked his horse into a quick trot that made it impossible to carry on a conversation.

Still she followed, curious about these dark corners of his, silently questioning why he would prefer them, and wondering if a time would come when they would swallow her up as well.

Chapter 11

H
e took the first punch because he deserved it.

He’d seen Eve’s face alight with Tristan’s invitation, and he knew within the depths of his soul that it was probably the first one that she’d ever received from a noble. Her father, for all his love for her, had kept her in a gilded cage, one so beautiful and filled with such kindnesses that she’d not even realized it surrounded her.

And Rafe was going to deny her the pleasure of accepting it because if he spent time in his brothers’ company, he had little doubt that they would see into his dark soul and know the things he’d done in order to survive.

He ducked as Mick took his next swing. Then he delivered a quick jab to his man’s ribs.

“You’re in a foul mood,” Mick quipped.

If only he knew the half of it. As soon as he’d seen Eve delivered safely to the residence, he’d taken himself to his club to spare her his presence. In the boxing room, he was stripped to the waist. It was the one place where he didn’t have to hide his aversion to wearing clothing. If only he could remove his trousers as well, he’d be in paradise.

Bouncing on the balls of his bare feet, Rafe danced around Mick. He was angry at himself for revealing to Eve that his brothers were good men and he wasn’t. It was something he acknowledged in the darkest recesses of his soul, but he’d never voiced it aloud. He’d been so proud of his accomplishments, so proud of what he’d obtained.

He’d planned to show them both . . .

Instead, they had shown him that they were men of honor, that they had not turned their backs on their heritage, that they had done nothing to bring shame to the family name. While he had managed to commit one offense after another.

He didn’t think about his sins, didn’t let them get past the wall to his conscience. Under the same circumstances, he’d do it all again.

He swung out at Mick, missed, and the bastard took advantage to land a blow to Rafe’s midsection that nearly doubled him over.

“You’re off tonight,” Mick said.

Rafe straightened, lifted his fisted hands. He never spoke of his past, he didn’t confide, he didn’t trust anyone to look beyond their own self-interests. It was the world in which he’d grown to manhood, one in which to survive, he never looked beyond his own needs, wants, desires. Finding himself concerned about what Eve might want unsettled him. He didn’t want to keep her in a gilded cage, but taking her away from it meant moving about in circles where he was far from comfortable. “Do you ever think about how we came to be here?”

He swung. Mick ducked and scurried back. “You’ve heard the rumors, too, then.”

“What rumors?”

Mick jabbed, Rafe blocked with his right and delivered a solid punch with his left. Mick staggered before regaining his balance and saying, “That Dimmick’s not dead.”

Dimmick, previous owner of the Rakehell Club, Rafe’s mentor as well as his tormentor. A more vile creature had yet to be born. The man had supposedly jumped from Tower Bridge a few years back, although the bloated remains that washed up along the shores of the River Thames were hardly recognizable. It was the distinctive ring that Dimmick always wore on his left hand that had been used to identify him.

Avoiding a punch to the jaw, Rafe feinted one way before dancing back to the other. “It would be like him to fake his own death, and then lay low for a while.”

“Six years?”

Dear God, had it been six years since he’d coerced Dimmick into signing the Rakehell Club over to him? He’d been fourteen when he’d begun working for Dimmick. Three years later he’d become his most trusted henchman, breaking bones without remorse, threatening without compunction. “You have the conscience of a corpse,” Dimmick had once told him. “That’s why you’re so good at what you do.” He took his orders and carried them out, because he’d learned too late that Dimmick wasn’t the sort of man to whom he should be in debt.

“Dimmick always had patience.” His mantra had been that if you’re going to destroy a man, do it so you destroy him completely.

“If he is alive, he’s going to be coming after you.” Mick jabbed Rafe’s shoulder.

“If something happens to me, go see a solicitor named Beckwith. He has my will and the papers for this place. Upon my death, the Rakehell Club goes to you.”

Mick froze, stared at him, and Rafe—from a long ingrained habit of never failing to take advantage of a weakness—rammed his fist beneath Mick’s chin and sent him spiraling backward and to the floor.

Damn. That was going to end the sparring. He knelt beside the man who had scurried around behind him when he was younger, taking whatever scraps Rafe was of a mind to toss his way. Not many, but it was enough to keep Mick loyal. When Rafe had acquired the gaming hell, he’d offered Mick a place. It didn’t make them friends. Their only association was the business. Mick managed it, and looked out for things when Rafe wasn’t here. Which until recently had been seldom.

“Not that I’m planning for anything to happen to me,” he assured Mick when the glazed look left his eyes.

“Why would you leave it to me?”

“Who else would know how to manage it?”

“I can manage it without owning it. Surely there is someone better to leave it to.”

“If there is, I’ve yet to meet him. But as I said, I plan to be around for a good long while yet. Still, send out some runners, have them ferret around, see what they can learn. If Dimmick is alive, it’s to my advantage to get to him before he gets to me.”

“W
ake up, wake up,
” his mind whispered, but he didn’t dare say the words aloud. He wasn’t certain he wanted her to know that he was there, leaning against the bedpost at the foot of her bed, watching her sleep again. While he was away, he’d thought of the night before he left, when he’d observed her while she lay sleeping. Every night he wanted to be back here, his gaze honed in on her face, the sweet expression of it.

All the women he’d known intimately had been coarse and hard, shaped by life into something impossible to break. She could break. In all likelihood he would eventually destroy her, unless he found the strength to let her go.

He admired her stubbornness, enjoyed sparring words with her. He would think he was winning, and then she would slip in beneath him and deliver a quick jab that left him flummoxed. Sometimes, only a few times, when he was in her company, he caught shadowy glimpses of the man he might have become had fate been kinder. A man who deserved to have her for the remainder of his life.

Her eyes fluttered open, and she smiled. “While you were away, I woke up every night expecting to see you standing there.”

He’d stayed awake every night, wanting to be here. Dangerous, so dangerous. She could become an addiction. He was well aware of what happened to men who could not get enough of gambling, liquor, or opium. He had to put a stop to his growing obsession with her, of wanting to be in her company.

“I missed you during dinner,” she said, and something in his chest clutched. Words, they were merely words. Something someone said when another person wasn’t about. She hadn’t meant that she’d truly
missed
him. She would have to care for him to yearn for his presence. She was here only because she was forced to remain. If he let her go, he’d never see her again.

That thought was intolerable.

She started shoving herself into a sitting position, stilled, and narrowed her eyes. “What happened to your face?”

He shrugged. “I was sparring.”

“You mean fighting?”

“For sport. I have a boxing room at the club.”

“Sport? Why do gentlemen find it entertaining to be hit?”

“Not to be hit. To do the pummeling.”

She rolled her eyes as though exasperated, jerked on the bellpull, threw back the covers, and scrambled out of bed.

“What are you doing?” he asked, alarmed by her actions. She wasn’t thinking of hugging him in comfort, was she?

“A man of your wealth no doubt has an icebox. We’re going to get you some ice for your wound.”

“It’s hardly a wound. Mick doesn’t have that hard of a punch.”

She stood before him, rose up on her toes, and studied his face as though it was a curiosity, something unusual that should be on display. She lifted her hand, he grabbed her wrist. She furrowed her brow. “It’s bruising and swelling.”

Releasing his hold on her, he gingerly touched his fingers to his tender cheek, near his eye. “It’s not that bad.”

A knock sounded at the door.

“Sit in a chair by the fire,” she ordered with authority before heading for the door.

He stood exactly where he was. No one ordered him about. No one.

Opening the door slightly, she spoke to the servant on the other side. When she turned back into the room, she pressed her lips together and pointed toward the sitting area. “Sit!”

She walked to the washbasin, picked up a cloth, and dipped it into the water. He looked at the sitting area, looked at her. Where was the harm? He wasn’t following an order. He wanted to sit. That was the reason that he ambled over and dropped into a stuffed high-backed chair.

As she strolled toward him, he watched the movements of her nightdress in fascination. He caught glimpses of the outline of her legs. He wanted to run his hands over her thighs, then send his lips on the same journey.

She knelt before him, lifted the cloth. “This will suffice until the ice arrives. The water was cool.”

“I can do it,” he said, reaching for it.

She yanked it back and glared at him. “I’ll do it.” She waited a heartbeat. “Please. You’ve done so much for me, and I’ve done nothing for you. I can give you this small courtesy.”

It had been so very long. He didn’t know how to accept kindness graciously. It was the reason that Tristan’s gift had nearly unmanned him.

He didn’t answer, but neither did he object or pull away when she very gently touched the cloth to his cheek. He watched her instead: the concern in her eyes, the tiny furrow between her brows, her concentration—as though if she didn’t do it just right, she would cause irreparable harm.

“I don’t understand men fighting,” she said quietly. “Did you get the better of him?”

He experienced a strange swelling of pride in his chest. “I felled him.”

“Why would you hurt a friend?”

“He’s not a friend. He works for me. He got in a good jab or two.”

She sighed. Another knock sounded on the door. “Hold this in place.”

Another order. As she got up to answer the door, he realized he was going to have to have words with her about this ordering him about business. He wouldn’t tolerate it. But when she returned, took the cloth from him, and placed ice shavings in it, he said not a word. As she gently laid it against his cheek, he thought he’d never felt anything so sublime.

“Are you hungry?” she asked. “I could have the cook prepare something.”

“No, I’ve eaten.” He wasn’t accustomed to having someone asking after his welfare. It was unsettling.

“Why would a gambling den need a boxing room?” she asked, her eyes focused on her task. She was positioned in such a way that from time to time, with an intake of a breath or an adjustment in her posture, one of her breasts brushed against his arm. It was almost his undoing. His mouth went dry. It would be so easy to roll out of the chair onto her, take her to the floor, lift the hem of her nightdress—

No, he’d not lift it. He’d rip it asunder. He wanted to see her in all her naked glory, and he had no doubt that she would be glorious.

“Men have frustrations,” he said, finding himself being tied up into knots at that moment with those very frustrations. “They need a place to work it off, so I have a room where they can box or wrestle. And sometimes—” He stopped. He wanted her comfortable with him. Not knowing the truth about him.

She peered up at him. “Sometimes . . . ?”

“I take men there and teach them a lesson.”

The cold ice left his face as she sat back on her heels. “What sort of lesson?”

“Things that belong to me are not to be abused.”

Her brow furrowed. “What sort of things?”

Why had he started down this path? Perhaps because he needed her to know some of the worst things about him, so she wouldn’t care whether he’d eaten or was hungry or had a bruise forming on his cheek. He didn’t want to fall into the allure of being tended. “The women who work for me—some do so on their back. Their choice,” he added quickly. “They plied their trade on the streets, but in my place they have it better. They’re clean, the rooms are clean, the customers who visit them are clean. But from time to time those gents can forget where they are and get a bit rough. When they hurt one of the girls, I hurt them back.”

She blinked. “You personally?”

“Yes, me personally. There’s nothing more frightening than facing a man who doesn’t give a bloody damn.”

Something soft touched her eyes. It made him want to squirm. He despised discussing any aspect of his life. He shouldn’t have come in here to look in on her.

“You told me that you would make Geoffrey regret the manner in which he’d treated me. Are you going to do it in that room?” she asked.