Calm yourself, Clay. She can likely hear everything from where she waits in her gilded little drawing room. Do not give her the pleasure of knowing how much the sight of her affects you after all these years. You can never again allow her to see your weakness.
“I respectfully request to be assigned elsewhere,” he clipped.
Leo did not miss a beat. “No.”
He resisted the urge to roar or slam his fist into his brother’s face. “Allow me to rephrase. I am not requesting. I am demanding.”
Leo flashed him a small, severe smile. “Once again, no.”
“I cannot guard her.” The low confession was torn from him.
He did not want to admit it. Not aloud and especially not to his brother, who traded in the weaknesses of others. Blood they may share, but Leo did not yield for anyone. He had inherited his mother’s icy temperament and sternness, where Clay had his own mother’s soft, giving heart.
Or at least he had, once.
“You can and you must,” Leo insisted. “You are aware of what happened to the duchess’s husband.”
The Duke of Burghly, the Chief Secretary for Ireland, had been stabbed to death in a Dublin park in the midst of a spring afternoon, along with his undersecretary. They had been beset by men wielding surgical knives, all the better to inflict deathblows. Whilst the men responsible for the outrage had escaped, evidence pointed in one direction only: the Fenians.
“Of course I am bloody well aware, Leo,” he said, fists and jaw still equally clenched. “But that has no bearing upon my presence here in her home. I cannot—will not remain here. The League is rife with other agents. Choose another one.”
“No one else is you, Clay. You can and will accept this post and guard her, because you must.” Leo paused, lowering his voice. “I know the two of you share a past, but I had not realized you still have feelings for her.”
“I don’t,” he denied with force. Too much force.
He had feelings for her, in truth. Loathing. Anger. Rage. Betrayal. Those were the sorts of emotions she had left behind along with the scar. And just like the mark upon his flesh, they would disfigure him for his lifetime.
“Then there is no reason why you cannot accept the position.” Leo’s tone smacked of finality.
Yes, damn it.There waseveryreason.
“I cannot be in proximity to her, Leo.” There, he admitted it. Just seeing her had shaken him. If he had known she had become the Duchess of Burghly, he never would have even deigned to come to Burghly House at all. She was like a broken rib, hurting him with each breath, a danger to his lungs. “You deliberately misled me in bringing me here.”
“I did not mislead you,” his brother argued, keeping his voice quiet so it would not carry back to the drawing room. “I acted in the best interest of the Home Office, the Special League, and the duchess. You must consider the matter rationally, Clay, and not with your heart.”
“I am being as bloody rational as I can be when it pertains to that woman,” he growled. “My heart has naught to do with it, of that I can assure you. My patience, however, my anger, my sanity…those things cannot withstand being in her presence for longer than I have already endured.”
Leo remained unmoved. “We cannot afford to allow the Fenians to claim another victim. The assassination of a duchess here on English soil, coupled with the bombings we have endured and foiled, would spark fear and pandemonium.”
An assassination.
Ara’s assassination.
Hermurder.
The sobering thoughts chased the heat of his rage, replacing it with a numbing chill. As much as he loathed not just the sight of her but everything she had done to him—her betrayal and her willingness to toss him away like an outmoded gown—the notion of her meeting her end in the same gory fashion as the duke made bile churn in his gut. The threats made against her were not just real; they were possible. The Fenians wanted Irish home rule, and they were not above terrorizing, bombing, and killing anyone they imagined stood in the way of their cause in an effort to gain it.
An ingenious part of their evil strategy was to bring war to England without ever sending an army. Small groups of plotters had already invaded towns and ports. A bomb last year in Salford had killed a young boy when it exploded. Other bombs had exploded in Liverpool, and various plots had been uncovered and stopped throughout London.
Now they had begun a different prong of attack, targeting government officials like the Duke of Burghly. And like his widowed duchess. Ara was being threatened by the most ruthless, fearless, and dangerous sort of men: those who perceived they had nothing left to lose.
But even so, she was not his responsibility. She had ceased being hisanythingthe day she had chosen to destroy him. He would not save her. The burden was too great for him to bear.
He shook his head. “I am sorry, Leo, but any other League member is as suited as I am for the role, if not more so. I cannot pretend I would be able to maintain indifference and guard her as will be necessary. Forcing me to do this is both unwise and dangerous to the lady, who is deserving of the basic right of safety, no better or worse than any other person.”
“No one is as suited as you, Clay.” His brother’s dark gaze was unrelenting. “You have thwarted dozens of assassination attempts. Your work protecting the Duchess of Leeds was commendable, and you had no problems settling yourself into a more domestic setting than you have been previously accustomed.”
The Duchess of Leeds had been the victim of a murderous plot, and he had served her well. In so doing, she had become his friend. She possessed the heart of an angel, with a willingness to take in all the stray beasts of London, but she had been different. She had not been Ara.
