“He would not have been hurt,” she said.
“Your lack of ammunition is rather surprising, madam, even to me. I don’t suppose the Fenians trust a cunny with a loaded pistol.” The bite of his tone, so at odds with the tenderness of his touch, nettled her.
And though she had no doubt it was just as he had intended, she reacted all the same. “They trusted me with ammunition. It is merely that I refused to hold a loaded weapon to the head of a young boy.”
Her soft heart had ever been her downfall. Bridget O’Malley was tougher than a wizened old tree, but when it came to children, even her jaded, cynical soul could weep. And though her days with the young duke had been limited, she had developed a fondness for the lad.
“You admit to your connections to the Fenians then.” His tone was clipped. Scornful.
“I admit to nothing but the ability to carry ammunition,” she said stoically, well aware she had said more than she should have. “I admit to knowing how to load and shoot a firearm.”
“I do not give a damn what you do or do not know about a pistol, madam. You held a gun to the temple of an innocent child. You had no compunction about dragging him from his bed and luring him away from his home.” His thumb pressed painfully into her wrist then, emphasizing the bitterness and rancor in his voice.
She clenched her teeth. “He was not hurt.”
“You betrayed his trust. That will mark the boy forever.” He pressed again. “What is your real name, madam?”
“Jane Palliser.”
He was expressionless—calm, almost—but his touch was anything but. He seized both her wrists in punishing grips which would have made her cry out with pain had she not bit her lip so hard she tasted the metallic tang of her own blood.
“Try again, damn you.”
His face was near to hers now, his gaze boring, and she could see the delineation of each whisker on his jaw. He had not shaved in several days, she would wager.
“Jane Palliser,” she repeated, goading him in part because she wanted to see how far he would go, and also, because she was no fool. If she revealed her identity, he would find a whole world of other means to hurt her.
He squeezed harder. “A warning, lady. You do not want to test me.”
“A warning in return. I will not be broken.” While her wrists were bound, her legs remained free, and she wasted no time in using her knee against him.
But her motions were slowed from the time she had spent in the sickbed, and she was still weak, in spite of the days she had spent recovering. He sensed her action before she could finish the follow-through, catching her knee beneath her chemise and stilling her in the act of smashing him in the groin.
“Do not fool yourself,” he said with dangerous intent, his tone as smooth as silk, butter rich and deep. He gripped her bare skin, and she felt the contact like a brand. “You will be broken by me. I will crush you, madam. Before I deliver you to prison, I will know your every secret.” His hand slid higher, jolting her as he made contact with her thigh, gripping her there as he joined her on the bed, his large body dominating hers with ease.
She hissed out a breath, grinding her jaw. Even weakened and in pain, she could not deny the pleasure Carlisle’s rough touch sent through her.
How was it her body could so betray her with a man she loathed? How could the biting grip of her enemy upon her make her heart pound and the flesh between her legs tingle?
Being wounded had addled her. Likely, her mind had been afflicted by the fever. It was the only explanation she would accept.
She jammed her thighs together, keeping his hand from traveling higher. “More villainous men than you have tried to break me and failed, Duke. You do not scare me.”
“Darling, there is no man more villainous than I.” He smiled, but it was a hard smile, one laden with menace. “I ought to scare you. I ought to bloody well terrify you.”
“Perhaps it is you who should fear me,” she challenged, meeting his gaze. She was desperate. At his mercy. But she didn’t give a damn. She had her pride, and she would go on fighting until she could fight no more.
“You?” His smile deepened, his gaze traveling over her in a manner intended to mock.
Instead, her entire body went flush with warmth.
Remnants of fever, no doubt.
“Aye, Duke,” she responded, allowing the brogue she hid to emerge. “You ought to fear me. There’s nothing more dangerous to a man than a woman he wants to bed. Especially when that woman is his enemy.”
A muscle flexed in his jaw, but aside from that, he remained still, one hand clamped on her thigh, and the other on her wrist, the heat of his body radiating into hers. “If I had wanted to bed you, I would have already done so.”
“Lie to yourself as you will,Your Grace.” She did not believe him, nor could she resist the mocking jibe of his title. Though he burned with a banked fury, and his every touch was punishing and cruel, the attraction between them was as potent and undeniable as ever, simmering just beneath the surface of the moment.
