Her gaze was wide, taking him in,seeinghim, and he could not look away. “You must have endured a great deal, Your Grace.”
Yes, he bloody well had, but nothing compared to the macabre end Morgan had faced. Crispin had not been vigilant enough that day at the farmhouse. He should have known better than to meet El Corazón Oscuro with nothing more than a handful of men on the periphery who were easily slain when attacked from behind. He should have been the one who was killed. The one who was tortured.
Morgan was a brilliant soldier, a skilled intelligence officer, a bold and daring man with an intuitive wit. He had been too valuable to lose. Crispin should never have blundered that day. If he had been a better man, a better soldier, a better damned friend, Morgan would still be alive today. Guilt had not the capacity to heal. It only ate a man alive, slowly, from the inside, until nothing remained.
“I endured less than I deserved,” he choked out, rising from his chair and stalking back toward his decanter. He kept his back to her, not wanting her to see the unrest coursing through him. Not wishing to see either pity or fear in her expression.
His heart beat faster now, a rapid staccato in his chest. His palms were sweaty, his mouth dry, hands shaking so violently he was almost incapable of refilling his snifter with brandy.
But it was the elixir he needed, as close to a panacea as he could reasonably get. He sloshed a more than generous quantity of brandy into the glass and raised it to his lips once, twice, thrice. Refilled the cursed thing. Drank more, gulping it down as though the stuff was air and he was a man who had been buried alive for so long, he could not inhale enough at one time.
His intention to go slowly this evening had dissipated. The need to numb himself became paramount.
“What happened to you, Your Grace?”
The quiet question, spoken in her soft, soothing tone, pierced the fog of fear and pain and horror cloaking his mind. He suspected he was on the edge of experiencing another fit. In the last year, they had become more and more frequent, vile spells during which he could not shake the memories of what had happened to him, what had happened to Morgan and so many of his comrades. And when he could not elude the memories, his body and mind became hopelessly confused, as though both were convinced he had returned to those dark days.
That could not occur. Would not occur. He could not afford for such an obscene burst of weakness to lay him low now, not before her. He had experienced fits before whores in the past—it was inevitable when a man spent his days and nights as he did. One had been terrified. Another had been intrigued, wondering if she could use his fears and the darkness residing within him to bring them mutual pleasure. The pleasure had been on her end alone.
He drank more brandy, inhaled deeply. The delicious scent of jasmine entered his nose and lungs. She had skirted nearer to him. He could feel her proximity like the charge in the air before a lightning strike. Still, he did not move to face her.
“Your Grace?” she persisted, her voice closer, softer. “Will you tell me?”
Was it his imagination, or did her hand pass over his shoulder blade in the ghost of a touch? He swallowed down another gulp of brandy before forcing himself to speak. “I fought the enemy until I could no longer fight him. Until my brother passed away and I was left with a title I never wanted and two sisters I can scarcely understand.”
“You must have suffered in Spain.”
Miss Governess had reached beyond her touch with the probing observation. Anger collided with the unrest within him, and he became a powder keg. Turning to her at last, he stalked closer, not caring that her eyes widened and her brows rose. Not giving a damn that her hand fluttered to her heart. Not even concerned he could read the fear sparkling in her sherry eyes. She ought to bloody well fear him.
He could not be trusted in her presence. His promise to play the gentleman had been smashed to bits by his inability to control himself. What nonsense had he fooled himself into believing? What in God’s name had he hoped to accomplish with this infernal prolonging of his inner torture?
He did not stop until he had chased her to the opposite end of the library, and she had nowhere left to flee with a wall of books against her back. Embracing the rage, for it kept his demons at bay, he tossed his snifter into the fireplace. It exploded into glittering shards as it met with brick.
Crispin slammed his palms against the books, lowering his head so he invaded her air the same way she had attempted to invade his mind. “I do not speak of Spain, madam. If you value your position in this household, you will never again mention it in my presence.”
Her long lashes swept down over her eyes, and when they raised, it was as if she had donned a mask. The fear was gone. Her gaze was steady and unrelenting as it burned into his. “If you think to intimidate me with your brutish ways and your superior size, you are bound to be sadly disappointed, Your Grace.”
His cheeks went hot at her easy read of him, damn her hide. “If you think to remain beneath this roof one more night, you will conduct yourself with the humility befitting your station.”
But she did not flinch. “Will you turn me out into the streets, then?”
Of course he would not.
He sneered. “Do not think my desire to bed you allows you liberties, Miss Governess. We are not equals. It is not your place to question me.”
Her lips tightened almost imperceptibly, the only reaction she gave. “You were trembling,” she observed.
Devil take it.“I do not tremble.”
“You still are,” she insisted, shocking him even further by touching his jaw in a feather-light caress. “Here.”
He swallowed as a violent rush of need tore through him. Everything in him wanted to claim this woman as his. But he ground down the instinct and gritted his teeth. “There are other areas of my anatomy that require your attention, my dear, should you like to attend them as well.”
She inhaled as though his crude suggestion had shaken her, and yet she did not remove her touch. “I think you do not need a mistress so much as you need a friend, Your Grace.”
A bark of bitter laughter left him. “And you fancy you could take on that role, I gather? You may save your friendship for someone who wants it. The only thing I want from you is between your pretty thighs.”
She jolted then, as if he had struck her, jerking her hand away from him. He felt the loss of her like a fist to the gut. Shame washed over him. He had been deliberately cruel and crude, but he felt no better for knowing he had finally bested her.
