Daring and the Duke (The Bareknuckle Bastards #3)(18)

She narrowed her gaze. “No.”

“Liar.”

The single word sent a hot flush through her. Twenty years earlier, the flush might have been pleasure or embarrassment. A keen understanding that he’d seen right to the heart of her. But now, it was anger. Frustration. And a refusal to believe that he might still see through her. That she might still be the same girl she’d been all those years ago. That he might still be the same boy.

“I felt you,” he said, low enough that only she would hear. “I know you touched me.”

Impossible. He’d been dosed with laudanum. Still, she couldn’t stop herself from saying, “Not me.”

“It was. It was you,” he said, softly, advancing on her with slow, predatory grace. “You think I would forget your touch? You think I wouldn’t know it in the darkness? I would know it in battle. I would walk through fire for it. I would know it on the road to hell. I would know it in hell, which is where I’ve been, aching for it, every day since you left.”

She ignored the pounding of her heart at the words. Empty. Meaningless. She steeled herself. “Since you tried to kill me, you mean,” she tossed out, lifting her chin. “I’ve a building full of decent men abovestairs; I’ve no need for a mad duke.”

A shadow crossed his face, there, then gone in an instant. Jealousy? She ignored the zing of pleasure that shot through her at the realization, instead focusing on his approach. He was within reach now.

He spread his arms wide. “Go on, then.”

Perhaps he didn’t think she would do it. Perhaps he thought back on the girl he’d known, who never would have hit him. Never would have hurt him.

He was wrong.

She let her right fist fly, packing pure power in the punch. It connected with a wicked crack, sending his head back with the force of the blow. She danced backward as he caught his balance.

Grace let out a breath, slow and even.

Devil’s walking stick pounded twice with approval in the darkness.

Ewan met her eyes. “You always could land a good blow.”

“You taught me.”

She saw the memory cross his face. The afternoons hidden in the glade on the estate at Burghsey House, when the four of them had planned and plotted against the duke who had vowed to steal their futures along with their childhoods. The afternoons when they’d made their promises—whoever won the duke’s perverse tournament would protect the others. Whoever became heir would end the line.

They’d been brought together because there was no other possible heir—no brothers or nephews or distant cousins. On the duke’s death, the dukedom, centuries old, would revert to the Crown. The trio of boys were his only chance at legacy.

And they would take it from him.

He would never win, they promised. Not in the long run.

Grace saw him remember those afternoons, when they’d worked so hard to choreograph their fights—Ewan’s idea, stolen from stage fighters his mother had known on Drury Lane—so they would survive the fights their father forced on them. He could not keep them safe from all the duke’s warfare, he knew, but he could keep them safe from each other.

And Ewan did. Until he did not.

The thought set her fist flying again. Years of fury and frustration landed the blow, and a second, at his ribs. He let the third punch push him back, toward the edge of the ring, out of the light.

And that was when she realized he was not blocking her.

She stopped. Stepped back. Drew a line in the sawdust with the toe of her boot. Lifted her fists. “Come to scratch, Duke.”

He stepped forward, toward her, but he did not lift his fists.

Anger flared. “Fight.”

He shook his head. “No.”

She stepped toward him, her voice rising with frustration. “Fight me.”

“No.”

She lowered her hands and turned from him, crossing the ring away from him. A wicked curse sounded from the darkness, nearly feral. Beast wanted in. She grasped the wall of the ring, the bite of the wooden planks welcome on her bare fingers.

How many of these rings had she claimed? How many had she triumphed in, and all because of this man? How many nights had she cried herself to sleep thinking of him? “I’ve waited twenty years for this,” she said. “For this punishment. For my vengeance.”

“I know.” He was behind her. Closer than she expected. “I’m giving it to you.”

She turned her head at the words, looking over her shoulder at him. “You think to give it to me?” She laughed, the sound devoid of humor, and turned to face him again. “You think you can give me what I want? You think you can offer me my vengeance? Your own punishment? Your destruction?” She stalked him back across the ring. “What nonsense. You, who stole everything from me. My future. My past. My fucking name. Not to mention what you took from the people I love.

“What, you think a night in the ring, accepting my blows, will win you forgiveness?” She kept at it, the spark of rage she had at his gift, flourishing into flame. Into inferno. “You think forgiveness a prize to which you have access?”

He was off balance. She could see it. Could read the wild thoughts in his eyes so clearly it was as though she had put them there. “Nah, perhaps you think that if you offer me the hits, I shan’t take them.” She shook her head. “Becoming a duke has surely addled your brain. Allow me to set you straight, Your Grace.” She let the Garden seep into her voice. “If somefin’ come free, take it.”