CHAPTER THREE
Mara had been on pins and needles since the day Roarke had popped out of the shadows like a thief in the night.
That was three days ago.
Since then, he had been suspiciously scarce, allowing her to come and go as she pleased, both to her haberdashery shop and all around London, but she noticed, not without a silent escort. As he’d given his word of honor, Roarke made sure that, even though he might be out of sight, he was still keeping her close at hand. It irritated her that her every movement was reported back to him, but honestly, she shouldn’t have expected less. She had delivered the ultimate shock of his life, and until he felt he had it all figured out, this was to be her punishment.
As if her very existence wasn’t a prison in itself.
Shaking her head, Mara tried to focus on the field before her and the current match Big B was embroiled in. It wouldn’t do to lose her focus in case Bentley needed her assistance. Even though there were sawbones in abundance, most were concerned with their bets rather than actually helping a wounded man in need.
As usual, Big B was leading in the ring, although he was up against his toughest adversary to date, a Brazilian man nearly equal in size and power. The crowd was abundant today, and the cheers were near deafening as the battle continued. Mara stood as close as she dared to Big B’s corner, biting her lower lip nervously as he suffered another wicked blow to the jaw. Sending up a silent prayer, she glanced at the opposing side of the ring and felt a sudden chill. Pulling her cloak more securely around her shoulders, she narrowed her gaze as the lean, middle-aged gentleman inclined his head toward her. As genteel as before, there seemed to be a new sharpness to his gaze as he appraised her now, and she quickly averted her eyes.
She’d noticed the stranger before when he had brought his man forward and declared his intentions to fight Bentley as soon as the scheduled match had ended. While it was rather bold of him to do so, Mr. Mendoza wasn’t about to let such a golden opportunity pass him by, and even though Big B was his prized pugilist, he wasn’t above exploiting him if it meant more money—or more notoriety.
Mara couldn’t put her finger on it, but there was something about the newcomer that didn’t set well with her…
Once the match had concluded and Bentley was declared the winner, Mara walked off to the side to wait for him. A deep voice behind her caused her to spin around.
“Did you have a prosperous event?”
She’d been so involved in her own musings about the stranger that she hadn’t even noticed Roarke standing less than ten feet away. Leaning nonchalantly against a tree, he pushed off of it as she came abreast of him.
“Since you were here to witness it with your own eyes, I think you can come to your own conclusions,” she returned, hating the way her pulse instantly sped up at the sight of him. In the late afternoon light, she could see the glimmer of a new beard on his chiseled jaw line, although his eyes shone with pure deviltry. It was moments like this when she could clearly recall the rogue she’d known in her youth—and why she’d given up everything for him.
“Indeed,” Roarke drawled. “And I’m a bit heftier in the purse because of it.”
Mara snorted at the jingle of coins he showcased before he tucked the small bag away in his coat pocket, even going so far as to give it a secure pat. She crossed her arms. “I’m so glad you were able to profit off of Bentley’s injuries.”
He lifted a lazy, sandy brow at her sarcastic tone. “So you’re the only one who can benefit from Big B’s winnings, is that it?”
Mara’s eyes narrowed. “Thatmoney puts food on the table and pays our creditors.”
His hazel eyes glittered. “Ah, I see. So to gain some extra blunt, I have to become a martyr, like you.”
Mara flinched unwittingly, for his words stung. It was obvious Roarke was baiting her, even now determined to paint her with a black brush. She clenched her fists. He had no idea what she’d had to go through—the hungry, cold nights, the horror of waking up in a workhouse, the constant concern for Lily’s well-being…
“I don’t have time for this.” Fuming, Mara turned on her heel, too angry to even remain and trade verbal barbs with him.
Roarke reached out and grasped her arm. Leaning down to speak in her ear, his voice was low and husky. “After all the hell you put me through, you will make time forme.”
Mara’s eyes blazed with all the frustration and anger born through the years. “How dare you patronize me? You have no idea the kind of life I’ve lived, and you have no claim on me, so in point of fact, I don’t have to do anything.”
Roarke’s jaw clenched. “May I remind you, you’re the one who lied. I’m only here to ensure you don’t disappear again until I get what I want.”
Mara narrowed her eyes. “Are you threatening me?”
He finally released her with a mocking tilt to his lips. “Not at all. I’m merely reminding you that until my curiosity is satisfied, I’m afraid you will have to contend with my presence.”
“Don’t you mean your revenge?” she spat.
He shrugged. “Call it what you will. The outcome will undoubtedly be the same.”
Mara wanted to throw back another haughty retort in light of his cool, blasé demeanor, but if she was perfectly honest with herself, she didn’t want to fight anymore. In fact, it tore her up inside when he looked at her with that derisive glare. At this point, there was still so much left unresolved that when it was all said and done, he likely wouldn’t look at her at all, contemptuously or otherwise.
Thankfully, she was saved from her own torturous misgivings by the arrival of Big B. Roarke turned his attention to the boxer and shook his hand, congratulating him on his victory. Bentley’s shoulders relaxed, and even though he was aware of the conflict between her and Roarke, the viscount was apparently working his charm to win the bigger man over, a rather difficult feat.
Abruptly, Mara spoke up. “As entertaining as this has been”—she studiously ignored the mocking brow that Roarke raised—“we should be going.”
