Daring and the Duke (The Bareknuckle Bastards 3)

“I love you,” he whispered to her, wanting to say it again, now, in this perfect moment.

She lifted her head at the words, her gaze searching his, finding whatever she was looking for, because she pressed a kiss to his chest, and then tucked herself back into the crook of his arm, as though she might never leave.

He tightened his arm around her, urging her to stay.

And then she asked for the thing he had known she would ask from the moment he’d woken up in the dark in this very building a year earlier.

Then, he’d been unprepared to answer it.

Now, he was ready.

No masks.

“What happened that night?”

Chapter Twenty-Three

He didn’t answer immediately.

In fact, for a moment, she thought he might not answer at all. Or perhaps he hadn’t heard her, as nothing changed after she asked the question—he did not loosen his grip on her, nor did his breath quicken, nor did the slow, steady beat of his heart increase beneath her ear.

Finally, he replied, the words a low rumble between them. “I have asked myself that question a thousand times.”

She did not lift her head, knowing that whatever was about to happen between them would change everything. Afraid that the truth would make it worse.

“And so?”

Grace listened to his breath, slow and even, for a long stretch, willing herself to be patient, as though her whole world weren’t in chaos at the idea that she might be in love with this man who had been her enemy for so long.

Over the years, she had imagined a dozen answers to the question. More. When they’d first escaped, she and Devil and Whit had spent hours trying to understand his betrayal. What had happened? What had turned him against them, so near to when they were planning to leave?

Devil, angry and bitter, had always believed Ewan had simply decided that the money and power was too good to pass up. He’d been the old duke’s choice for heir from the start, hadn’t he? Why throw his lot in with them, empty bellies and empty pockets on the dark, dank streets of the Rookery?

They’d likely die before they grew old.

Whit had been more empathetic. She could still remember him wincing as she wrapped her petticoats around his broken ribs, even then arguing that Ewan had always been the one with the longest game. There’s a reason, Whit had said. He didn’t betray us.

He’d said it for weeks. Longer, as they disappeared into the Rookery, hiding from the old duke, who they feared would come for them—the only people in the world who knew his plans to steal the dukedom for his line, rather than dying without heir.

And then, one day, Whit had woken with a changed mind and a different heart. A harder one. And from that day on, he’d done everything he could to keep them safe from even a whisper of the dukes of Marwick—young or old.

But Grace, she’d never had the benefit of cold disinterest. She’d never found it. She’d loved him and hated him. Raged at him and wept for him. And wished him back more times than she could count. More times than anyone could count.

And even when she’d closed herself off, she’d never been entirely able to forget him.

So it was impossible for her to find casual interest in his answer now, as they lay naked in her bed—so close to revealing everything to each other.

Especially not when he finally answered. “I would never have hurt you.”

She had no choice but to lift her head at that, meeting his eyes, searching and finding the truth. And still, suspicion flared. Her brow furrowed with the memory of the night.

“I remember it,” she said. “You—”

His whole body tightened at the invocation, and she stopped herself, for a moment considering not saying the rest.

No. If they were to move forward, the truth had to come out.

“You came for me,” she said. “I saw the blade in your hand. I saw the rage on your face.”

“It wasn’t for you,” he said. “I don’t expect you to believe me, but it’s true.”

“Something happened.”

“Yes, something happened,” he said with a humorless laugh. “He made his choice.”

“We always knew it would be you,” she said. “From the start, it was you. Devil and Whit—they were decoys.”

“They were there to train me to be a Marwick,” Ewan said, his gaze on the ceiling. “To remind me of what was important. The title. The line. They were there to train me to be ruthless.”

And he had been, that night.

Or had he?

He gave a little ironic laugh. “He taught them to be ruthless, too. He would be proud of them now.”

“They couldn’t care less about his pride.” She didn’t break stride.

“They never could,” he said, “and that’s why he hated them more than he hated me.” He looked at her. “But he didn’t hate us nearly as much as he was terrified of you.”

Her brow furrowed at the words. “Me,” she said. “What did he think I could do to him? He was a duke, and I was a child. I lived on the estate by his benevolence alone.”

“Don’t you see, Grace, that made you even more terrifying—a mere girl. An orphan who should not have mattered. You should have been easily disposable. But that was not your destiny. Instead, you hated him with fiery passion and cold calculation. You were brilliant and beloved by everyone who met you, even without them knowing the truth . . . that you were the babe baptized duke—” He cut himself off for a moment and then, after consideration, he said, softly, “And you fought alongside us with a fierceness that he could not control.

“From the moment we arrived at the estate, he pitted us against each other. Mind tricks and games and battles of will and physical brutality. And he could not break us. We were three, together. Locked in a battle not to win, but to beat him. And he loathed it, because he could not understand why he could not separate us.”

“You were brothers,” she said, simply. She had spent two years with the trio and twenty with Devil and Whit, and she knew that they’d been forged in the same fire—made as a set.

“No,” he said, his hand stroking over her back. “He lorded over us with the promise of money for our mothers and wealth for ourselves. Food in our bellies and knowledge in our brains. Roofs over our heads. Whatever we wanted, if only we’d fight each other.”

She shook her head. “You never did. Even when he put you in the ring together. You always pulled your punches.” She paused, then, “A lesson you still carry with you. I saw you do it in the Garden the other day.”

He rubbed a hand absently over his jaw, where a bruise still faded. “That was a mistake. If you hadn’t stopped the fight, I might not be here.”

Of course she had stopped the fight. She would never have let him die. “You’d do well to remember that, toff. We fight dirty down here in the mud.”

“I shan’t make the same mistake again.” He paused, watching her carefully, and then he said, “I only ever pulled my punches for you.”

She tilted her head. “What does that mean?”

“The three of us could have easily been broken. Separated. Manipulated,” he said. “It wasn’t blood that kept us together against him. It was you.”