Clio had always paid close attention to current events. And to world history, geography, languages, and more. Her mother had insisted. A diplomat’s wife needed to be apprised of all the world’s happenings.
Strictly speaking, a diplomat’s wife probably didn’t need to be apprised of all the happenings in underworld boxing, but Clio hadn’t been able to resist.
Rafe had always been such a source of fascination to her. In the middle of their polite, manicured garden square of a society, there had grown this wild, rebellious vine that refused to be tamed. She wanted to understand him. She wanted to know why he’d walked away from that world, and where he’d gone, and whether he was happy there.
Caring about Rafe Brandon seemed a dangerous habit, but it was one she couldn’t seem to quit.
“Speaking of names,” he said, “since when do you go by ‘dumpling’?”
She winced. “Since Daphne married, and her husband decided to give his new sisters-in-law pet names. Phoebe is kitten, and I’m dumpling.”
“Stupid name.”
“I can’t disagree. But I don’t know how to tell him to cease using it, either.”
“I’ll tell you how. Just say, ‘Don’t call me dumpling.’ ”
It wasn’t so easy. Not for her. She moved to enter the passageway. “Are we going to follow this tunnel or not?”
He held her back. “This time, I’ll lead the way.”
She handed him the lamp. They ducked and entered the tunnel. The way was narrow, and the ceiling was low. Rafe had to hunch and twist to thread himself through the smallest spots.
“Why do you do it?” The question tumbled out of her. She asked because he was here, and they were alone—and she could. “Why do you fight?”
His answer was matter-of-fact. “I was cut off with no funds or inheritance. I needed a career.”
“I know that. But surely there are other ways to earn a living. Less violent ways.”
“Ah.” He paused. “I see where this is going. You want to know my secret pain.”
“Secret pain?”
“Oh, yes. My inner demons. The dark current of torment washing away little grains of my soul. That’s what you’re after. You think that if you keep me here in your pretty castle and cosset me with sixteen pillows, I’ll learn to love myself and cease submitting my body to such horrific abuse.”
Clio bit her lip, grateful it was too dark for him to see her blush. If she’d been flamingo pink the other day, she must be fuchsia now. “I don’t know where you get these ideas.”
He chuckled. “From every woman I’ve ever met, that’s where. You’re not the first to try it, and you won’t be the last.”
“How disappointing. Can I at least be the best?”
“Perhaps.” He stopped and twisted around in the tunnel, so that he faced her. “Do you want to know my deep, dark secret, Clio? If I were to unburden my soul to you, could you truly bear it?”
She must have quivered, or shuddered, or something—and he mistook it for a nod of assent.
“Here it is.”
She held her breath as he leaned close to whisper in her ear. The back of her neck prickled. His deep voice resonated in her bones.
“I fight,” he said, “because I’m good at it. And because it makes me money.” He turned away. “That’s the truth.”
Clio wasn’t convinced.
Oh, she didn’t doubt that he spoke some of the truth—but she suspected it wasn’t all of the truth. There was something more, something he wasn’t willing to admit. Not to her, and perhaps not even to himself.
Soon the passageway curved and began to slope upward.
They opened a panel and emerged into a narrow alcove.
“Where the devil are we?” He was so broad and tall, he filled almost the entire space.
“Near the front entryway.” Clio squeezed herself into a corner. “This is my favorite part of the castle.”
“This.” He plucked a bit of moss from a jutting stone. “This is your favorite part.”
She tilted her gaze upward. “See that lever up there?”
“Aye.”
“Can you reach it?”
He reached up and grabbed the ancient iron handle. His giant hand fit around the lever as if it were made for him.
“Go on, then. Give it a pull.”
Uncertainty drew his brows together. “What happens when I pull it?”
“You don’t want to ruin the surprise.”
“If the surprise is a spike through the chest, I do.”
“Trust me. You’re going to like this.” Clio went up on tiptoe and put both her hands over his one, pulling down with all her weight.
The centuries-old mechanism groaned and creaked.
“Now come see. Hurry!”
She waved him out of the alcove just in time to watch. From a slot above the archway, an iron grate began to descend. Like a massive, sharp-toothed jaw biting through stone.
“Get back.”
Rafe’s arm whipped around her waist. With a gruff curse, he yanked her backward, well away from the gate as it crashed into place.
The echo reverberated through them both. Exhilaration pulsed through her veins. Clio loved that sound. That sound declared this wasn’t just a house.
It was a stronghold.
“Well?” she asked. “Isn’t that something?”
“Oh, it’s . . . something.”
“You sound displeased.” She turned to face him. “I thought you’d like it. Do you know how many castles in England still have a functioning portcullis?”
“No.”
“Neither do I,” she admitted. “But it can’t be a great number.”
He still hadn’t let her go. His arm remained lashed about her waist, protective and crushing. And his heartbeat pounded in his chest, sparring with hers.
Goodness. He’d truly been frightened. Coming to chest to chest with the proof of it . . . Well, it made her feel safe in some ways and utterly defenseless in others.
“Rafe,” she whispered. “It wasn’t going to hit me.”
“I wasn’t going to take chances.”
“You needn’t worry so much. You do realize, if I end the engagement—or if something ends me—Piers will find another bride. The ladies will queue up by the score. I assure you, I’m very replaceable.”
He shook his head.
“No, truly. I know our fathers desired a connection between the two families. But they’re both gone now, and I don’t think they’d—”