Chapter 2
Max Alexander William Carrow, Duke of Raventon, forced himself down into the ice bath. An unbidden hiss of pain escaped his lips. The frigid water encompassed his scarred thigh and side. The twisted mass of sinew and bone that had never truly recovered ached and screamed at the stabbing feel of the frigid water.
Cubes of ice bobbed against his skin and he sucked in deep breaths of air, willing himself to take the frigid temperature. For if he could endure it, he might know a few hours of sleep. The pain of the past was always with him. In mind. In spirit. And in body.
Few knew of the wretched scars that made his body a mess, a jest of a perfect form. For when he was clothed, he looked the perfect gentleman. He knew it. But once the layers of wool, silk, and cotton had been peeled away. . . he was a twisted man.
In mind. In spirit. In body.
He dared to close his eyes for a moment and, for that blessed moment, the cold drove out any memories which might dare to darken his thoughts.
It was a blessed and agonizing relief.
If only he could find a way to stretch out such moments. To find a modicum of peace. A peace that lasted longer than the blink of an eye.
But he never would. Not truly. Not when so many he knew would never know peace. He’d never rest, not when so many still needed justice. After all, it was the only way he could honor those who had fallen.
A loud thump at the door shook his dark thoughts and he snapped open his eyes.
“Yes?” he growled.
“Your Grace?”
Max gripped the sides of the copper tub, savoring the feel of the metal biting into his palms. Any urge to growl further was dissipating.
“Out with it, Abbot,” Max demanded.
The butler never would have bothered him if all hell wasn’t breaking loose. Had a servant lost their wits? Was that the shouting he’d heard?
Normally, he’d have sought out such a thing and discovered the source. But the pain had been particularly insidious tonight, and he’d already disrobed. . .
A long pause preceded Abbot’s rushed, “There is a young lady to see you.”
“Is she in distress?” He was not overly fond of damsels in distress, but nor would he ignore one.
“She is. . . most determined.”
Max stared at the door. “Tell her to come back in the morning.”
“I did,” Abbot replied quickly. “She will not be dissuaded.”
Max let his head drop back against the tub and sighed. Helping people was what he did. It was a part of him that could not be gainsaid but, sometimes, he did wish he could have but a few moments to himself.
“She says Angeline Purcelle sent her.”
The name cracked through him and he shot up in the tub. “Who?”
“Angeline Purcelle, Your Grace.”
Without another thought, he stood, sheets of water pouring off him, splashing onto the floor. “Send her up. Now.”
“Y-yes, Your Grace.”
Grabbing the long, white linen that had been laid out for him, he wrapped it about his waist and strode towards the fire. The frigid cold vanished as his blood pumped wildly through his body.
It was a name he’d never thought to hear again. For Angeline Purcelle was dead.
He swallowed and turned to the grog tray. Quickly, he splashed out a good dose of brandy into a crystal snifter.
Waves of memories crashed down on him. Paris at the height of the terror. Streets filled with men who’d become beasts. . . blood slipping through the cobbles. . . heads on spikes. He could still see Angeline Purcelle. . . The Dove as the crowd had snatched her and tossed her into their ravening grasp.
The image filled him with an old horror, a horror he’d done everything he could to eradicate.
Voices filled the corridor.
“I’ll no’ be handled!”
The thick Scottish burr shocked him and he turned towards his door, on edge, as the past threatened to sweep in on him.
His door opened and a woman was thrust through.
Her red hair was hidden under a green bonnet, its strings flying about her pale face. Eyes so piercingly blue stared at him he felt almost stabbed by them.
Fury sparked in their depths and. . . uncertainty.
Her cloak was stained with mud and her jaw was set with determination.
She could not be two and twenty yet she carried herself with the authority of a woman far beyond her years.
When she caught sight of him, her gaze flared and she took a step back.
“A rare sight, am I no’?” he asked, well aware that she could see the mass of scars snaking up the right side of his abdomen and chest.
“What the devil happened to you?” she asked without a hint of reticence or embarrassment.
Her boldness stunned him. Most would have stammered, looked away, made their excuses.
She did not flinch.
“You’re not here to discuss what happened to me,” he replied, holding his brandy glass lightly. “You’re here to discuss what’s happened or could happen to you. Now, how the devil do you have that name? For you are not Angeline Purcelle.”
She met his gaze without apology. “I am no’, Yer Grace. It was a name given to me should I ever need help. I was told to come to ye and say it.”
“Who gave it to you?” he asked quietly.
“My aunt,” she replied quickly.
“And who was she?” he inquired with surprising coolness.
“Sophie Argyle.”
He blinked. The name. . . should it mean something to him? It had to if the woman had known his secrets. Or if she had known Angeline Purcelle.
“I didn’t know your aunt,” he replied carefully. “I don’t know you.”
“But ye kent Angeline Purcelle?” she asked, softer now. "Oh, and I'm Lady Diana.”
Diana. It suited her. Fierce and strong like the goddess. He took a long drink of brandy, preparing himself for a tangle. “Yes. You look tired.”
She inclined her head, acknowledging the accuracy of his observation. “I’ve traveled from Scotland in six days’ time.”
“From Edinburgh?”
She shook her head. “Torridon.”
He gaped at her. Torridon was far to the north and west. Some of the most beautiful and wild country on this earth. “In six days?” he scoffed.
“We stopped only to change horses.”
“Your coachman is mad to risk such a thing. What demon is on your heels that you would ride so hard and risk travel at night?”
She leveled him with an unyielding but heartbroken stare. “My brother.”
He paused for only a moment before he turned back to the brandy and poured another glass. “Tell me your tale. So I know what to do with you.”