24. Kill the Duke
KILL THE DUKE
“Fucking Jupiter, woman, you’re cold as an ice block.”
The words woke Guin with a start, as did the jolting sensation of being dragged across the bed and into the hot embrace of a man she’d thought would die last night.
She looked over her shoulder as her back settled against his belly with a groan (him) and a gasp (her). Still groggy, she had to blink sleepiness away to convince herself she was not dreaming.
No, his eyes were open and sharp and green, and she turned gently and buried her face in his bare chest with the utmost care, letting the tears fall because she could not stop them. No longer violent tears, though. They came steady and sweet like a spring rain as he kissed the top of her head.
“You really don’t hate me, lass?” he whispered, voice raw.
She shook her head.
“Why are you so fucking cold?”
“I opened the window last night to cool you off.”
He glanced over his shoulder and cursed again then tried to get out of the bed. But she tangled herself up with him so completely he couldn’t, and he cursed some more.
“Your language has devolved since getting ripped through with a bullet.”
“Almost dying always makes me curse more.” He tried to leave the bed again.
But she scrambled over him, hitting the floor before he did and bolting toward the window.
She slammed it shut and called out into the hallway, “He’s awake!
He’s awake and he’s angry!” And it felt so damn good.
She smiled, unable not to, and joined him in the bed again, being careful not to jostle him.
“How can you smile after you were shot and nearly lost all your blood and I only just saved you from dying?”
He lifted his good shoulder, let it drop. “Because I’m not dead. And I’m glad about it.” He tweaked a lock of hair near her cheek. “My mouth tastes like death, though.”
Ned and Bentley appeared at the same time, both flushed and wide eyed. Susan was not too far behind them. They took charge, Susan urging Guin into a bath and Ned trying to help Bran to a chamber pot, which Bran insisted he could absolutely do on his own.
She sank into the warm water, sunlight filtering through the stained glass above, and still she grinned. Voices rose, high and happy for the first time in days. And they didn’t know who’d tried to kill her yet, but Bran was alive. Alive.
And she was soaping her arms, hair piled high atop her head, when the voices faded and Bran stepped into the bathing chamber.
“You should get back to bed,” she said, sinking beneath the water to hide her breasts.
“Don’t want to.” With his good arm, he dragged a chair near the tub and stole the soap from her hand. “You took care of me, now let me take care of you.”
She glanced toward the door.
“I sent Susan away. I sent all of them away. The doctor is apparently coming later, though.”
“He’s been here every day, though I’m not sure he’s done a bit of good. He keeps calling me Duchess Witch.”
Bran’s eyes narrowed. “So I’m going to have to kill him.”
“No!” She laughed, a true laugh that felt like bubbles lifting her up.
He ran the soap down her arm, up again and over her shoulder. As he slipped the soap down her back she sat upright, leaning forward and hugging her knees. He cleaned her quietly with a gentle touch and a little quirk of his lips.
“I should like to join you, but I’m sure you’ll tell me I’m not up for it.”
She lifted a brow. “Join me.”
He wore only trousers, and they were easy to shuck off.
Then he unwrapped his bandage and stepped into the tub behind her.
He cradled her close on his uninjured side and rested his chin on top of her head.
Against her back, his heart beat a steady, regular rhythm.
She wanted to press her ear against his chest and listen to it all day long.
But she picked up the soap and began to clean his shoulder—soap, rinse, soap, rinse, over and over again, and he didn’t hiss even once.
But he did eventually take the soap from her hand. “It’s clean, lass. You’ve done well.”
She bit her bottom lip, nodded, and he turned her around, nestled her close against him, and slid the soap across her skin—above and under the water—across his as well, with a heavy, satisfied sigh.
His injured arm he left still in the bath, slightly curved around her middle.
As he poured water over her shoulders and neck, washing away the soap, he kissed her just beneath her ear.
“Forgive me for worrying you.”
“I forgive you.” For more than almost dying. They were talking about more than just the bullet and the blood.
“Are you sure?” He seemed to understand. Beneath the water, he ran his fingertips up and down her belly, from just under her breasts to the top of the curls between her legs.
“Yes.” The admission part moan.
And enough of an encouragement for him to delve deeper as he nibbled on her earlobe.
“Don’t,” she said. “You’re still—”
He slipped a finger inside her, curled it. “Don’t what?” His voice a low grumble.
“I-I… I don’t know. Don’t stop?”
“As you wish.” He stroked up every emotion she’d careened between in the last several days and rolled them toward a high peak of pleasure, and when she climaxed, she didn’t know if she wanted to cry out or cry, melt into oblivion or return the favor.
So she turned and kissed him—a long forever sort of kiss that made her heart grow and the heat between her legs return.
And he kissed her back with a confident passion, his one good hand roaming everywhere on her body, the water warming deliciously around them.
He whispered little words and rambling sentences she didn’t pay much attention to at first. She hadn’t kissed him enough, hadn’t let him kiss her, and she had time to make up for, lips to learn and remember, a tongue to taste.
But he didn’t stop, each kiss a mumbled word that built on another.
“God, I love you, Guin. I have since the moment I met you, I swear. And I’ve loved every version of you—widow, duchess, potion maker.
I’m killing Braxton. We can go anywhere together, Bran and Guin.
There’s no heir. The title will revert to the Crown, and that’s for the best. I was never meant for it, it never meant for me. ”
“Wait.” She pulled away from the kiss, shaking her head. “Slow down. What do you mean?” He’d said something similar the night of the attack. “You can’t kill Braxton.”
“Oh, I’ll die alright. This time for good. There will be no questions about it.”
“But you’re good at being Braxton. You need to be him.
The world needs you to be him. If you kill him, then all his work disappears.
No one will take up his cause, and men will continue to douse women with love potion without their consent, no consequences.
And women who do the same will end their lives at a hangman’s noose. ”
Something in his face shifted, a brief reluctance he shuttered immediately. “I don’t want to be Braxton. I want to be with you, even if it’s just as your guard. I was never meant to be a duke. I’m not built for it.”
“You are. There’s no one kinder or who fights harder. You can’t. I won’t let you.”
The panicked rush to simply keep this man alive that had driven her since the attack drained away. He was alive, and everything between them had changed. He loved her. And she… good Gaia, she loved him. And this thing between them, built on hate and betrayal, once so safe…
It no longer was.
This was the curse, killing him in a different way, killing her as surely as a knife to the gut.
Her despair must have shown on her face because he kissed her and stood, bringing her along with him. He helped her out of the tub and handed her a towel, which she slung over her shoulders. “Shh. We’ll talk about it later. Let me kiss you. Since you’re letting me kiss you.”
She let him and more as they dried off and returned to the bed. Someone had changed the sheets. Everything was new and fresh, and even her makeshift worktable had been tidied.
He was tired and dragging, and she donned a shift and wrapper as she brewed a sleeping draught for him.
When she tilted it toward his lips, he made a face, but she lifted a brow and he let her feed him the potion. Then she laid down against him and buried her face in his chest. She remained there until his breathing settled into a deep, slow rhythm.
Then she remained there even longer, memorizing the strength and smell of him, memorizing the sound of a heart that beat so openly for her.
Perhaps she’d rip it out to keep him safe.
She couldn’t move. The curse became a solid thing inside her—an eventuality neither she nor Bran could escape.
No. No. It was merely an unknown. A thing she could discover and fix.
But a lifetime of fear and misery screeched much louder than the gentle whispers of a newly formed hope.
She ripped herself away from his side, and as she slung her legs to the floor, Artemis winged in from the bathing chamber. She perched on the mattress and danced toward Guin, cocking her head.
Guin ran a finger down her wing. “Don’t squawk. You’ll wake him.”
As if she knew exactly what Guin meant, the bird hopped over to Bran and ruffled her feathers before settling beside him.
Her heart a stone, Guin dressed. She needed to think.
And there was too much emotion clogging the room to do so here.
Bran was too large here, too consuming. So she grabbed her walking stick and tiptoed out of the bedchamber and down the hall.
She met the doctor going down the stairs, as he was coming up.
She swallowed a lump of emotion in her throat. “He’s sleeping under the influence of a draught I made. He has been awake and walking about. He’s grumpy but much better than before. No more signs of infection.”
“Excellent, but I think I’ll check for myself.”
“Yes, take good care of him.” At the front door, she met Ned, who stepped in line behind her.
“Where we off to, Lady G?”
“Finsbury Square.”
“The duke know you’re going?”
“No.”