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

Oh, muscadine.

She blinked and forced herself to look again. Perhaps it wasn’t him.

But there was no mistaking his profile. That rugged slope of a nose healed from multiple breaks. Add in the thick, dark hair, the strong jaw, the impressive breadth of his shoulders . . . That was Lord Rafe Brandon himself, perched on a crossbeam some dozen feet above the bricked floor. He had a rope in his hands, and he was knotting it securely to the beam. At the end of the rope was a loop.

A noose.

Apparently, his spirits hadn’t fallen as low as she’d feared.

They’d sunk lower.

And she’d arrived not a moment too soon.

Her heartbeat went into a panicked stutter, whomp-whomp-whomp-ing in her chest. “My lord, don’t. Don’t do this.”

He glanced up. “Miss Whitmore?”

“Yes. Yes, it’s me.” She advanced in small steps, lifting an open palm in a gesture of peace. “It’s Miss Whitmore. It’s Clio. I know we’ve had our differences. I’m not sure if we have anything but differences. But I’m here for you. And I beg of you, please reconsider.”

“Reconsider.” He gave her a hard look. “You mean to stop me from . . .”

“Yes. Don’t do something you’ll regret. You have so much to live for.”

He paused. “I’ve no wife, no children. Both my parents are dead. My brother and I haven’t been on speaking terms for nearly a decade.”

“But you have friends, surely. And many fine qualities.”

“What would those be?”

Drat. Clio should have known that was coming. She mentally ran through everything she knew of his life in recent years. Most of it came from the newspapers, and nearly all of it was horrid. Rafe Brandon had earned a reputation for being ruthless in a boxing match and shameless everywhere else. His endurance in the bedroom was almost as legendary as his quickness in the ring. They called him the Devil’s Own.

“Strength,” Clio offered. “That’s a fine quality.”

He cinched a knot tight. “Oxen are strong. Doesn’t save them from slaughter when they can’t pull anymore.”

“Don’t speak that way. Perhaps you’re no longer the champion, but that doesn’t mean you’re worthless.” Her mind groped for something, anything else. “I recall that you gave some of your winnings to a war widows’ fund. Isn’t that true?”

“Probably.”

“Well, then. There’s that. Charity is the best of virtues.”

He finished tying off his knot and pulled on it to test the strength. “It’s no use. A stray good deed or two could never balance my sins. What of all those women I’ve seduced?”

“I . . .” Oh, heavens. How did one speak of such things aloud? “I . . . I’m sure a few of them enjoyed it.”

At that, he laughed. It was a dry, low chuckle—but a laugh, nonetheless.

Laughter was a good sign, wasn’t it? Laughing men didn’t hang themselves. It shouldn’t bother Clio that he was laughing at her.

“I assure you, Miss Whitmore. They all enjoyed it.”

He let the length of rope dangle from the beam, then made his way down it, hand over hand, until he dropped directly before her. He was barefoot, dressed in gray trousers and an open-necked linen shirt. His green eyes dared her to break with propriety in a dozen unthinkable ways.

And that smug quirk of his lips?

It said he already knew she wouldn’t.

“Breathe,” he told her. “You haven’t walked in on a tragedy.”

She took his suggestion. Air flooded her lungs, and relief filled her everywhere else. “But what was I to think? You up there on the beam, the rope, the noose . . .” She gestured at the evidence. “What else could you be doing?”

Wordlessly, he walked to the edge of the room. There, he retrieved a straw-stuffed canvas bag with a hook affixed at the top. He walked back and hung the sack from the loop of rope, sliding the noose to make it tight.

“It’s called training.” He gave the bag a single, demonstrative punch. “See?”

She saw. And now she felt unbearably foolish. In their youth, Rafe had always teased her, but of all the mischief he’d pulled over the years . . .

“Sorry to ruin your fun,” he said.

“My fun?”

“It’s a popular enough female pastime. Trying to save me from myself.” He threw her a knowing look as he sauntered past.

Clio blushed in response. But that was the wrong word. A “blush” was a whisper of color, and right now her cheeks must be screaming. Just ridiculously pink, like a flamingo or something.

Wretched, teasing man.

Once, when Clio had been a small girl, she’d seen a fistfight in the local village. A man buying hazels challenged a merchant over the honesty of his scales. The two argued, shouted . . . a scuffle broke out. She’d never forgotten the way the atmosphere changed in an instant. Everyone in the vicinity felt it. The air prickled with danger.

She’d never witnessed another bout of fisticuffs. But she felt the same prickle in the air whenever Rafe Brandon was near. He seemed to carry things with him, the way other men carried portmanteaux or walking sticks. Things like intensity. Brute power, held in check—but only just. That sense of danger mingled with anticipation. And the promise that at any moment, the rules that governed society could be rendered meaningless.