Say Yes to the Marquess (Castles Ever After #2)(16)

“See?” She lowered her voice as they crept through the cavernous space. “This castle has dungeons.”

“These aren’t dungeons.”

“They are so dungeons.”

“They’re far too big for dungeons. These were clearly cellars.”

She went to a hook where a lamp was hung and gathered a flint from the nearby tinderbox.

“Stop ruining the fun.” She struck the flint. Nothing. “Battles were fought in this place. It’s over four hundred years old. The very air is thick with history. For centuries, people have lived and loved and died here. Just think of it.”

“Here’s what I think. You’ve been reading too many of those knights-and-ladies stories in the Gentleman’s Review. People have lived and loved and died everywhere. And for every crusading knight who won a tournament for his lady in this castle, I promise you—there were a hundred men who spent a solid decade scratching themselves and having pissing contests from the ramparts.”

She cringed and tried the flint again. “Men are disgusting.”

“Yes,” he said proudly. “We are. But we’re useful, on occasion. Give that here.”

He took the flint from her hands and struck it. The sparks didn’t dare disobey. Holding that warm, nascent glow cupped in his powerful hands, he could have been Prometheus, as painted by a Florentine master. The reddish gold light flashed over the strong planes of his brow and jaw, then lingered on the rugged slope of his oft-broken nose.

“Well, I’m not a man,” Clio said, feeling keenly aware of her womanliness. “I’m not going to spend a decade pissing from the ramparts. I’m going to do something with this castle.”

“Let me guess.” He lit the lamp, then whipped the straw, putting out the flame. “You want to open a school for foundlings.”

“That’s a lovely thought. But no. If I’m to maintain this place, it needs to generate income. No offense to the poor dears, but there isn’t much money in orphans.”

Clio took the lamp, went to the far wall, and counted off the stones.

One, two, three, four . . .

“Here’s what I brought you down to see.”

If this didn’t impress him, she didn’t know what could.

She pushed hard on the fifth stone. An entire section of the wall swung outward.

“Behold,” she declared. “A secret passage.”

He took the lamp from her and thrust it into the darkened tunnel, peering hard into the gloom. When he whistled, the whistle echoed back.

“Very well,” he said. “One point to you. That’s capital.”

At last. Clio warmed with satisfaction. She wanted him to appreciate the history and see the potential of this place, but there was more to it than that. She wanted him to enjoy this castle, the way she enjoyed it.

She thought of his spartan warehouse, with its humble cot and sawdust floor. All those slimy raw eggs.

He needed more enjoyment in his life. A home and warm comforts and amusements that didn’t end in bloodshed. To live like a human rather than a beast bred for fighting.

“So where does this secret passage lead?” he asked.

“Go through it and find out.” She arched a brow. “Unless you’re frightened.”

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.’ ”