The blonde called Anna, whom Mara had met in the strange windowed room, arrived, her work complete, and Mara watched from the corner of her eye as the prostitute kept quiet vigil over Temple for long minutes, her fingers stroking the tattooed skin of his arms, tracing the cords of his muscles, holding one strong hand as she whispered in his ear.
It occurred that she might be Temple’s paramour, what with the way she’d spoken of him in the dark, mirrored room. With the way all the women had panted and leered over him, he no doubt had a string of women. And this one was beautiful enough to be the general of his petticoated army.
Long, slender fingers trailed over smooth skin, perfectly filed nails worrying the hair of his arms in a gesture that could not be misread. This woman knew Temple. Cared for him. Was comfortable touching him as he lay still and naked in the dark.
Mara looked away, hating her. Hating herself for the hot jealousy that coursed through her. For not telling him everything when she had the chance. For not trusting him.
For tormenting him, when he had done nothing to deserve it.
She kept her head down as she cared for him, flushing and cleaning and packing his wound, mopping his brow, and feeling for his blessedly strong, steady heartbeat. Someone had covered him with a blanket and placed a pillow beneath his head—a concession to comfort even as they feared moving him from the table, as though the scarred oak had some kind of life-giving property.
Mara grew more and more concerned as day gave way to dusk in the world beyond the casino, and he remained still. Bourne threatened to call another doctor but during one of her exiles, the elusive Chase apparently sided with Pippa and gave them the night to bring Temple back to consciousness.
Chase was gone before Mara returned to the room for another round of wound cleaning and dressing, but his words were gospel to the others.
When she was near Temple, she spoke to him, desperate to wake him, to bring him back to consciousness. Desperate for him to open his eyes and see.
Sometimes, I think you do see me.
Words whispered in the darkness on a London street.
She hadn’t seen him then. Not really. But now she did. And now she wanted him to see her. She needed it. She needed to explain everything to him. She needed to make him see the truth.
Her truth.
But he did not wake except to struggle and fret when they washed the wound with near-boiling water, the discomfort enough to rouse him into some new layer of consciousness, where he seemed unable to do anything but ask, over and over, “Why?”
She answered him quietly, not wanting the others to hear what she said—what she promised—answers, and truth and even vengeance, hoping that something she said would bring him back from wherever it was his mind had gone, before the others decided that she and the countess were mad and sent for the cruel man who called himself a doctor.
The countess had become her one ally, seeming to understand after several hours of ministrations that Mara shared her goal.
All their goals.
More .
The door to the room opened, and two women entered, one plain and proper, clearly a lady, and the other large and aproned, carrying a teapot. The lady’s gaze found Bourne’s across the room, and she flew to him, landing in his strong embrace. He crushed her to him and pressed his face to the crook of her neck as she wrapped her arms about his head, threading her fingers into his dark locks and whispering to him.
Mara was torn between gaping at the display—so incongruous with the man with whom she had interacted—and looking away from the deeply emotional moment.
When he finally pulled away, his unpleasant personality returned. “What the hell are you doing here?”
The lady did not seem to register the tone. “You should have summoned me yourself. I should not have to receive word from Pippa.” She paused, her fingers coming to his cheek. “What happened to your eye?”
“Nothing.” He looked away, and so did Mara, her gaze falling to Pippa, standing at Temple’s other side, watching her.
“It’s not nothing, Michael.”
“It’s fine.” He caught her hand and pressed a kiss to her fingertips.
“Who hit you?”
The countess’s lips twitched. Mara willed her to stay quiet. Luck was not on her side. “Miss Lowe hit him.”
The plain woman pulled herself up to her full height and looked to Pippa. “Who is Miss Lowe?”
Pippa pointed at Mara, who wished she could disappear. “She is.”
The other woman faced her, gaze tracking her bloodied dress and haphazard hair and no doubt haggard face before landing on Mara’s right hand, which had dealt the blow.
One blond brow rose. “I suppose he deserved it?”
Shock had her meeting the lady’s eyes. “He did, rather.”
The lady nodded. “It happens.” She turned back to Bourne.
“I most certainly did not deserve it.”
She raised a brow. “Have you apologized?”
“Apologized!” he sputtered. “She hit me. On her way to kill Temple.”
Mara opened her mouth to protest, but the woman did not give her a chance to finish her sentence. “Miss Lowe, have you plans to kill Temple?”
It was the first time anyone had thought to ask the question. Mara told the truth. “No.”
The woman nodded, and returned her attention to Bourne. “Then my husband no doubt deserved it.”
Bourne’s gaze narrowed as Mara registered the meaning of the words. This woman was the Marchioness of Bourne, and willing to stand up to the horrible man without hesitation. Surely she should be sainted.
“You should not be here,” Bourne grumbled.
“Why not? I’m a member and married to one of the owners of the club.”
“This is no place for a woman in your condition.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. I am increasing, Michael, not infirm. Pippa is here.” The marchioness indicated the countess, who was, indeed, with child.
“It is not my fault that Cross does not love his wife the way I love mine.”
Cross raised a brow at the words before looking seriously to Pippa. “I love you a great deal.”
“I know,” Pippa said, and Mara wondered at the simplicity in the words. The countess’s perfect understanding that she was loved.
She imagined what it would be like to be loved with such certainty. Her gaze flickered to the man on the table. To his strong jaw and long arms, and the hand that lay flat against the wood, palm curved and empty. She wondered what it would be like to slide her hand into that space. To fill it.
To love and be loved.
Mara returned her attention to the Marchioness of Bourne, whose attention remained fixed on her husband. “Michael,” she said softly, “Temple is as much mine as any of yours.”
The woman turned to face Temple’s still form, and worry etched her brow as she reached for him, her fingers grazing his good shoulder before pushing dark hair from his brow. Bourne came to stand with his wife, pulling her tight against his side, anger and pain etched on his handsome face.
“Good God,” she whispered, leaning into her husband’s embrace.
“He will live.” The words were harsh, torn from Bourne’s throat, equal parts will and worry.
Something tightened in Mara’s chest as she watched the tableau. This man—whose life she’d toyed with—she hadn’t ruined him. He had dozens who cared for him, friends who would go to any lengths to save him.