by Darcy Burke
They circled each other a moment before Cuddy lunged again, aiming for Kit’s chest and then changing his direction at the last moment. He brought the blade up to slice Kit’s face, but Kit managed to correct and pull—mostly—out of the way. The knife scraped into his flesh from his temple to down in front of his ear before he managed to remove himself completely from harm’s way.
Blood trickled down his jaw as Cuddy’s eyes took on a feral sheen. The man grabbed a bottle from a table and smashed it against the wood. He held up the broken bottle with a taunting sneer and came at Kit swinging both arms, but leading with his knife. Kit met Cuddy’s knife with his, and as the blades clashed, Cuddy swiped with the broken bottle. Kit flung up his hand in a defensive gesture, and the glass bit into his palm. He kicked out and hit Cuddy in the thigh instead of his intended target—the groin. Still, Cuddy stumbled back, and Kit pressed his advantage, kicking out again, this time aiming for Cuddy’s knife hand. His boot connected with Cuddy’s flesh, and the man cried out as the knife fell and spun across the floor.
Cuddy brought his hand up and wrapped it around Kit’s wrist, squeezing tight while he brought his jagged bottle up toward Kit’s head. Kit chopped his hand into Cuddy’s wrist hard enough to make him drop the bottle. All the while, Cuddy twisted Kit’s wrist mercilessly until his knife clattered to the floor from his useless grip.
Unarmed, they came together again with fists and fingers and elbows and knees. They crashed into a chair, sending it skidding into the wall. Kit barely managed to keep his balance as Cuddy reached for his leg to try to pull him down.
Kit struggled to draw a breath. “This doesn’t have to end badly.”
“It doesn’t end any other way—for you.” Cuddy sneered as he scanned the room, clearly looking for a weapon. His gaze landed on Kit’s knife and turned murderous. Kit realized this was a fight he had to win.
Kit saw that Cuddy’s blade wasn’t far. Lunging for the blade, he picked it up and turned it in his hand before sending it flying into Cuddy’s chest just as the man turned toward him after plucking up Kit’s weapon.
Eyes wide and the color draining from his face, Cuddy sank to the floor in a heap, falling backward against the edge of a threadbare carpet.
Dammit, Kit hadn’t meant to kill the man, just keep himself from being killed. Kit saw Cuddy’s coat hanging from a hook by the door and grabbed it before rushing to the man’s side. He pressed the garment to the man’s chest around the knife. Kit didn’t dare remove the weapon.
Cuddy’s smile was ghastly, his face pale as blood drained from his body. “Don’t have to do that. Won’t matter. I’m a dead man. Don’t try to tell me you’re a duke. Dukes don’t fight like that.”
“Who told you I’m not Blackburn? Tell me, and I’ll fetch you a doctor.”
Cuddy’s smile widened, and blood leaked through the gaps between his teeth. “You’d like to know, wouldn’t you? But no, I think I’ll go to my grave thinking of you looking over your shoulder for the rest of your miserable life, wondering who knows your secret. I’ll be waiting for you on the other side. Men like us don’t get to rest.”
Men like us.
Kit wanted to argue that he wasn’t like Cuddy, that he wasn’t a thief, which was about the most hypocritical thing in the history of hypocrisy. Kit was a liar, and a fucking paid and sanctioned thief. No, men like them wouldn’t find eternal rest.
Curling his fingers around the bloodied edge of the man’s waistcoat, Kit growled, “Tell me!”
Cuddy only smiled again before going limp, his eyes shuttering for the last time.
With an oath, Kit let the man go and sat down hard on the floor, scooting away from the body. What a fucking disaster. He hadn’t retrieved the money. He hadn’t discovered how Cuddy had known he wasn’t the duke. And the man was dead.
And someone was knocking on the door.
“Mr. Strader, are you all right?” The voice was soft and feminine.
Shit. Kit coughed and lowered his tone to a gravelly rasp. “Fine, thank you. ’Night!”
He waited, breathless, for a response. At last came “Good night,” and the sound of receding footfalls.
He expelled his breath and looked at the body. Regret coursed through him. He hadn’t wanted to kill the man, but Cuddy hadn’t given him a choice. In truth, Kit had underestimated him. He’d presumed Cuddy to be a thief, not someone intent on violence. That had been Kit’s mistake, and one he wished had turned out quite differently.
Kit considered wrapping the body in the dingy carpet and hide it somewhere, but he wanted the man to be found and to have a decent burial. What he ought to do was inform the constable, but that would draw attention to himself, and he knew his ruse couldn’t last much longer. Particularly since there was someone else out there who knew he wasn’t the duke.
No, what he ought to do was leave Blackburn immediately. But the thought of abandoning Verity and Beau, of never seeing them again, was more painful than any injury he’d ever sustained.
Wincing, Kit pushed himself up. He hurt just about everywhere from the fight, and at some point he’d lost the ledger from the back of his waistband. The blood on his face had dried, but his hand was still bleeding and hurt like hell. He’d have a variety of bruises come morning and wondered what the devil he’d tell Beau.
Thinking of that innocent boy as a man lay dead in front of him forced Kit’s eyes closed. He took deep breaths and pondered how far he’d come and how different his life was now compared to just a few weeks ago. He’d killed men before, dozens during the war, but this was somehow different.
Because he was different.
Weary and aching, he opened his eyes and pushed himself up. He took his knife from Cuddy’s hand and slid it into his boot. Then he located his pistol and the ledger and tucked both into his waistband.
He went back to the desk and stuffed the letter from Kingman into his waistcoat. A quick search of the desk didn’t reveal anything else of note.
Rather than risk the landing and the stairway given the presence of others in the building, Kit decided to take the leap to the bushes below. Branches poked into him as he landed, scratching at him and adding to his pains.
After finding his coat, he shrugged into the garment, grimacing. On his way back to the castle, he became even more aware of his injuries. He was also aware that the moon was sinking, and he hoped to make it home before the guiding light disappeared.
Home. Was it really? He’d begun to think so, but Cuddy’s words tonight had reminded him that he was an imposter, and this was supposed to be a temporary game.
Hell, he could return to the castle, take any number of items from silver to weapons to Verity’s jewelry and be on his way without a backward glance. His chest ached at the thought.
And yet that would be the right thing to do.
No, the right thing would be to take nothing and just leave. In fact, he could divert his path right now and go toward the coast. Just the thought of the ocean lapping the shore, of the salty air coating his skin, of the sound of seabirds calling him… That was home.
His feet kept propelling him toward the castle, however.
It took nearly twice as long for him to get back, and the moon had vanished by the time he reached the lower gate of the courtyard. He’d avoided the main gatehouse, which was staffed with a gatekeeper. However, Beaumont Tower had been built as a fortress, and there was only one way into the castle. The underground escape route had apparently collapsed and had never been rebuilt. Perhaps Kit ought to add that to his list of improvements should he require another clandestine trip from the grounds.
Which he might.
He had to find out who else knew—or at the very least, suspected—his secret. Perhaps the ledger would provide a clue.
Praying he wouldn’t run into a retainer at this hour, he hurried across the courtyard and into the upper gateway. The door to the stairway that came out next to his bedchamber was still unbolted, just as he’d left it. Once inside, he
slid the bolt, then climbed the stairs as quickly as his aching limbs could manage.
Light from the sconce in the corridor made him blink as he adjusted from the darkness. He grazed his shoulder against the doorframe from the stairs with a thud. A moment later, the sound of a door opening made him freeze. It was just ahead. Not his door. Beau’s.
Shit.
How was he going to explain the blood all over him to the boy?
But it wasn’t Beau. Verity came into the corridor, shutting Beau’s door behind her. She came toward him, her brows low. Then her eyes widened as she neared. “Rufus?”
“I’m sorry I disturbed you. Is Beau all right?” He wanted to deflect attention from himself, but even more, he wanted to know why she was in Beau’s room at this hour.
“He’s fine, just woke up and asked for water. He’s asleep now.” She edged closer, her gaze fixed on the cut on his face. “What happened to you? Where have you been?”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m fine. I’m just going to get cleaned up and go to bed.”
“Come with me.” She turned and started along the corridor toward her chamber.
“No.”
She pivoted slowly and cocked her head at him. “You need help. I’m going to give it to you, and you’re not going to argue. I need to get you cleaned up. If Beau wakes up again and sees you like this—”
“He can’t.” Kit would do anything to keep that from happening. In fact, he should have gone to the kitchen to clean up.
She gestured toward his chamber. “In there, then. Do you have water?”
He nodded and made his way into his room. She followed, closing the door behind her.
The fire had died down to coals, and Kit used a spill to light the lantern he kept on his dresser. Soft, warm light bathed the chamber, and he was suddenly aware that they were alone together with the door closed. With a bed in the same room. And she was barely clothed.
And shortly, he would remove his clothes. No, he wouldn’t do that with her here. But God, how he longed to shed his coat. He’d already removed his cravat on the walk back and wrapped it around his injured hand.
“Sit.”
“You’re very good at giving orders,” he said. “Have you thought of commanding a ship?”
She went to the corner where he kept the washbasin and ewer of water on top of a slender cabinet. “Where are your washing cloths?”
He sat in a chair next to the dresser near the light so she could have it to see. “In the top drawer.”
She poured water into the basin and withdrew some cloths from the cabinet. “I’d get seasick,” she said.
“How do you know?” He bent to remove his boots, his sore body protesting the movements. “Have you been sailing before?”
She came toward him with her supplies and set them on the dresser. “No, but if I ride in a carriage too long, I become ill. I think the motion of a ship on the ocean would be far worse.”
“It can be, but you’d grow used to it.” He’d vomited for weeks when he’d first walked onto a ship.
She moved the lantern closer to him and surveyed his face.
“I’m guessing I’ve looked better.”
“You look like you’ve been in a fight.”
“I was.” He had to tell her about Cuddy. And he would—tomorrow. After he had a chance to review the ledger he’d taken and determine what to do next. It seemed leaving Beaumont Tower might be his only option. “Can I tell you about it tomorrow?”
She stared at him a moment, her dark coffee-colored eyes narrowing slightly with concern. “Yes.”
Pursing her lips, she dabbed a cloth into the water and began to clean the cut along the side of his face. It was just in front of his ear and stretched from his temple to his jaw.
“Will I have a scar?” he asked.
“Perhaps. It’s not very deep—you’re fortunate.” She stopped cleaning when he flinched. “Sorry,” she murmured.
“Don’t apologize. I appreciate your ministrations.”
“You need ointment or unguent. I have something in my room that I use on Beau’s cuts and scrapes. You’re as bad as a six-year-old,” she muttered.
He couldn’t suppress a smile. It wasn’t what she’d said but the camaraderie between them as she tended his wounds.
She rewetted the cloth, rinsing dried blood off the fabric, then went over the laceration once more. “Does it hurt?”
“Not as much as my hand.”
“Your hand?” She looked down at his hands, which rested on his thighs. “Show me.”
He unwound the cravat from his left hand and turned it palm-side up to reveal the cut. “It’s not terribly deep—I don’t think it require sutures.”
“I’d ask how you can be the judge of that, but I gather you’ve been wounded many times.” Her gaze searched his face. “So many secrets.” The words were soft, but they hit him hard, like a volley sent across the water sending his heart rate toward the sky.
She lowered her eyes to focus on his hand, rewetting the cloth before cradling his hand in hers and wiping away the dried blood. “You won’t tell me where you’ve been the past six years. You won’t tell me where you were tonight. You won’t tell me who did this to you.” She fell silent again as she finished cleaning the wound.
Dropping the cloth into the basin, she didn’t remove her hand from beneath his. Her gaze found his once more and in the flickering glow of the lantern he saw concern and vulnerability. And something more he couldn’t name.
“I know you aren’t Rufus.”
His heart tried to leap from his chest and probably would have run away if it could. Instead, it was trapped inside him, pounding a frenzied rhythm and sounding a drumbeat in his head.
He tried to think of a response but there simply wasn’t one.
“Are you going to leave?” she asked.
“Now?”
Her gaze found his with dark intensity. “Ever. You aren’t my husband. I don’t know what you’re doing here or what you want.”
“I would never hurt you. Or Beau.”
“Somehow, I know that. But do you plan to leave?”
He heard what she left unspoken—that leaving would hurt them. “No. Not unless you want me to.” The words shocked him to his core, but he’d never uttered anything more honest in his life.
Her hand was soft and warm around his. It was barely a touch, something borne from necessity as she’d cleansed his wound. But then she put her free hand to his face, tracing her finger along the edge of the cut.
He waited, breathless, for her to demand to know who he was and why he was there. Instead, she merely stared into his eyes, and it was then that he recognized that unknown emotion buried in her gaze.
Desire.
His body leapt in response, every fiber in him screaming for her. But he did nothing. It was, apparently, enough, because she leaned down and pressed her lips to his.
The contact jolted through him like lightning blazing over the ocean and illuminating everything with a sparkling, wondrous glow. When her mouth moved gently over his, the sensation intensified, heating him to an impossible degree.
Her hand cupped the side of his head as she slanted her lips across his. He tried to hold himself back, to let her direct the kiss. It was, after all, her creation.
Closing his eyes, he longed to clasp her waist, to sit her down on his lap and plunge his tongue into her mouth, to taste her, to claim her, to show her how badly he wanted her. But he did none of those things. He held his breath as she kissed him softly, innocently.
Briefly.
She withdrew, and he opened his eyes to find her staring at him. “I don’t really know how to kiss. Was that nice?”
She… What? He’d thought of pummeling her husband many times, and wished he could do so right this very moment. After he railed at him for his stupidity. How could Rufus have been married to this beautiful, graceful, strong creature without wanting to kiss her senseless?
“It was very nice,�
� he said. “In my opinion. More importantly, however, is your opinion since you initiated it. Did you think it was nice?”
Her brows angled down. “Should I not have done that?”
“I’m quite glad you did it, actually. In fact, you have leave to do so whenever you like.”
Faint swaths of pink highlighted her cheeks. “I did think it was nice. But… Is there more? I know there is… I just—” She stopped herself with a shudder.
He wanted to ask what she knew but feared he’d spend the rest of his life hunting her husband down and doing more than pummeling him. “Yes, there’s more. If you want me to show you some time, I will.”
“Will you show me now?”
His body shouted in response, his fingers itching to hold her and his cock hardening with need.
“I’m not certain that’s the best idea. It’s late—”
“And you’re injured.” She averted her gaze. “I shouldn’t have asked. I’m sorry.”
She started to turn, and he put his hand on her waist, staying her movement.
“Don’t. I’m glad you asked.” He splayed his hand across the side of her dressing gown, wrapping his fingers along her lower back. “Come here.”
She pivoted back toward him, and he used his other hand to guide her down to sit on his left knee. Her hair hung in a single braid, draped over her left shoulder. He touched the plait, running his fingertips and thumb along the soft ridges of her dark locks. Ascending the rope, he reached her face, where he grazed the pad of his thumb along her jawline.
“Do you want me to kiss you? To really kiss you?”
She nodded, her eyes locked with his.
She was so capable, so intelligent, such a fierce woman to raise her son alone and be duchess of such a grand estate. And yet her innocence and naïvete humbled him. He didn’t want to mess this up.
Slowly, he wrapped his hand around the back of her neck and guided her head down. He parted his lips slightly as he brought her mouth to his. She closed her eyes, and he closed his. Gently, he kissed her, taking his time to learn her flesh and coax her response.
He kept a low pressure on her back, keeping her secure on his lap while he used his other hand to lightly massage her nape.
