Chapter 4
Lady Diana’s immediate and forceful reaction was not the one Max had intended. Nonetheless, he was awed by it.
Her pale cheeks flashed red, red as the flame of the locks coiled beneath her bonnet. She took a step back and eyed him as if he’d lost his wits.
“Och, Ye’re mad to say such a thing,” she all but growled, a most unique sound from her lithe frame. “And an arse.”
“Am I?” he asked, unoffended and curious.
“Marry ye, indeed,” she huffed. “Ye canna mean it. And I dinna ken what sort of man ye are to make such an offer when ye’ve no intent to carry it through.”
“I’m the sort of man who won’t try to murder you for your funds,” he pointed out as he realized she genuinely believed he jested with her and made light of her plight. Nothing could have been further from the truth.
“And mightna I be leaping from the frying pan into the fire with such a rash match?” She narrowed her sapphire gaze and eyed him up and down as if he were a clod brought in from the garden. “What if ye’re a madman?”
“What if I am?” he agreed easily before he shrugged. He’d seen too much hell to be overtaken by this moment. No, calm was his best tool. “You came to me for help, so you must assume I won’t hurt you.”
She gaped at him before she sputtered, “I thought ye’d drive my brother off, no’ ask me to wed.”
“Oh, I can do that,” he replied easily. “Never you fear. But what, then, when you’re bothered again by another man. . . or what if your brother is more determined than we hope? Do you intend to face this life as a single woman?”
She sniffed. “Indeed, I do, thank ye verra much.”
His stomach twisted with impending dread and. . . something else. God, he admired her. Her fire. Her spirit. But he knew men. They’d see her strength and some would see it as a chance to have a bit of fun in her breaking, like a man with a fiery horse. Some loved to put a wild horse in its bridle. Max liked to give them their heads, seeing them take to the fields.
He hated those men who loved to break. If there was one thing he’d never do, he’d never do that to her. If anything, he’d do everything he could to foster her fire. To teach her how to use it and burn her enemies wherever they lay.
For he’d seen an independent woman, fierce, determined, and strong, torn limb from limb. By a mob that had lost its wits and its humanity.
If he could, he’d teach Diana to be strong but untouchable.
God, could he? It would be a chance at redemption.
That was exactly why he’d asked her. Oh, there was the fact she was the daughter of a powerful Highland laird. She came from an ancient line. She was beautiful, well spoken, and, from her own lips, she professed the desire to have children.
He had to marry at some point.
Why not a wild Highland lass who would give him children with courage, wit, and more than milksop nursery passivity as so many English girls would do?
In her, he felt the blood of a rebel. It matched his own, after all.
All his life, he’d fought. For king. For country. For conscience.
Half of Europe had sat on the sidelines and watched the bloodbath that had flowed in France.
He hadn’t. His father had grown ashen when his son had declared his intent to spend so much time in France while the old order fell beneath the National Razor. For the old duke had been no fool. He’d known his son’s temperament.
At seventeen, Max had gone to Paris in 1789, just before the worst of it had begun. He had done things to save people which, even now, caused his skin to crawl.
The amount of people he’d helped did not alleviate the hell he’d experienced nightly as he recalled the methods he’d used or the fellow spies he’d lost. . . like Angeline Purcelle.
When he looked into Lady Diana’s eyes, he saw the gaze of a soul just like his own. A soul just like The Dove’s. And he would not allow her to be burnished or captured by a cruel master.
If it had been a different time. If he had still been abroad, he would have immediately recruited Lady Diana to aid him. Her nerve was clear. Her passion burned. Yet, she was also capable of cool, clear reason in her passion.
It was a rare combination.
One that he wished to immediately protect. Oh, he could become her guardian by default. He could choose a house for her, outriders, guards, and servants who were retired spies, all capable of sussing out dangers.
But he felt. . . he felt a direct affinity for her. Perhaps, it was the way in which she stared at his scars unflinchingly. Perhaps, it was the way she had not crumbled under her brother. No, she had flown to London, not to beg but to insist on his help, trusting that the person that had given her the name Angeline Purcelle would not betray her by sending her to a cruel bastard.
She had a good instinct. So far, it had served her well.
“If you insist on making your way alone, of course, I will help you,” he said, determined to assure her, but also to tempt her. “And not just because of La Purcelle. That name got you through my door. But it is you and your actions that ensure my protection.”
She bit her lower lip, not a worried gesture, but one which seemed intent on measuring her response. “Who was Angeline Purcelle?”
“One of the greatest people to ever live,” he whispered, hating that, after all this time, it still agonized him to think of her.
Lady Diana’s scarlet brows rose ever so slightly as she noticed he had said people, not women. “Am I to ken anything of her?”
He stilled, contemplating whether or not he could ever truly share his memories of the woman who had set him on his path.
His heartbeat increased, suddenly longing for any word of Angeline. “Did your aunt know her? Can I speak with her?”
“My aunt died last year.”
His hopes dashed at those fatal words and he cursed himself for being foolish enough to hope to meet someone else who had known Angeline. Angeline would be near fifty now, if she had lived. In her eyes, he must have seemed but a boy, but he had respected her more than he could ever say.
Lady Diana took a long drink of brandy, wincing slightly. “My aunt said that Angeline Purcelle was no’ the woman’s real name.”
He struggled to hide the growing sadness in him. “No, it was not.”
“Who was she?” she asked.
“A great woman,” he declared easily, because it was true. But there was so much to the woman who had died so bravely. “A spy. A hero. A traitor. It all depends on who you ask, Lady Diana.”
“I’m asking ye,” she said gently.
He swallowed. “She was my friend.”
Her eyes widened at the depth of emotion in his voice.
Quickly, he swallowed and looked away. “Now, I owe Angeline Purcelle a debt and you yourself. . .”
“Yes?” she prompted.
“Come.” He placed his glass down on the mantel with more force than he’d intended. “We’ll find you a room until dawn and then decide what to do with you and how to handle your brother when he arrives.”
“Arrives?” she asked, disbelieving. “I dinna understand.”
He strode towards her and said with all seriousness, “If your brother is as desperate as you say, he’ll be here within the day. You don’t think he’ll let you go, do you?”
She shook her head. “No,” she whispered.
“Good,” he replied, relieved she wasn’t naive. “You’ve just proven that you’re not a fool.”
Her lips curled in a brittle, forced smile. “I always kent I wasna.”
“I hoped not,” he replied with as much kindness as he could. “Now, I can be sure of it, too.”
He grabbed the silk robe from his bed and swept it around his body.
The linen sheet fell to the floor as he belted the robe about his strong waist. He turned and faced her then, wondering if she had any idea as to what might lay ahead.
“Welcome to my home,” he said, at last. “I hope you like it. For you won’t be leaving for some time.”