She had robbed him of his life, then lied to him. Again and again. She didn’t care for him. It was impossible.
Cross was still speaking to Bourne. “And, she took a fist to your face.”
“You needn’t say it with such glee,” Bourne retorted.
“There is glee. You were trounced. By a woman.”
“You’re a bastard,” Bourne grumbled. “And besides, how was I to know she threw a punch like Temple?”
Memory flashed—Mara in the foyer of the MacIntyre Home for Boys, her hand flat against his chest, strong and warm. I don’t wish to hurt you.
Another lie.
Cross interrupted his thoughts. “So, Temple. What have you done wrong?”
A vision flashed, Mara in the center of his ring, begging him to listen to her. What would she have said? What would she have told him?
He pushed the memory aside. When had she ever told him the truth?
Minutes prior.
“Nothing.”
“Oh, that means you’ve definitely done something.” Bourne collapsed into a nearby chair.
“When did the lot of you turn into chattering magpies?”
Cross leaned against the billiard table. “When did you lose your sense of humor?”
The question was not out of bounds. Had it been Bourne or Cross in such a foul temper, Temple would have been the first to ask questions.
Indeed, in the past year, Temple had had the great pleasure of watching both men flirt with insanity as they resisted, then courted their wives. He’d laughed at them more often than not, and been happy to add to their misery.
But while this might involve a woman, this was not about a wife.
This was about absolution. A much more important goal.
“I let her go,” he said, simply.
“Where?” Bourne asked.
“Home.”
“Ah,” Cross said, as though the word explained everything. Which it didn’t.
Temple scowled at the irritating ginger. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Only that when they leave, it’s never as pleasant as you think it will be.”
“Mmm,” Bourne added. “You think you’ll get peace, and instead . . . you can’t stop thinking about them.”
He looked from one of his friends to the other. “You’ve both become women. I would easily stop thinking about her if she weren’t . . .” He hesitated.
If she weren’t so infuriating.
If she weren’t so all-consuming.
If she hadn’t been so damn beautiful as she stood tall and proud in his ring and took the blows he delivered like a champion. Like she’d deserved them.
Which she had.
But what if she hadn’t?
“If she weren’t . . . ?” Cross prodded.
Temple poured himself a glass of scotch. Drank deep. Hoped the burn of liquor would erase the burn of her memory. “If she weren’t my link.”
“To?”
To Lowe. To the past. To truth. To the life he’d so desperately wanted for so very long.
More than that. She was his link to everything.
He pushed the thought aside and leaned over to take another shot, ignoring the twinge of pain that sizzled down his arm, disappearing as though it had never been.
He missed. Bourne and Cross looked to each other in surprise. He gave them his best glare. “You try it with one arm.”
A knock sounded on the door, and they turned as one, Temple grateful for the change of topic. “Enter,” Bourne called.
Justin entered, followed by Duncan West, the owner of no fewer than eight newspapers and magazines in London, arguably the most influential man in Britain, and the man who was going to restore Temple to his rightful place in the peerage.
West surveyed the room. “Room for a fourth?”
Temple extended his cue toward the newcomer. “You may have mine.” He moved to a sideboard and refilled his glass before pouring a second as West shucked his coat and tossed it to a nearby chair.
“Who is winning?”
“Temple,” Bourne answered, taking his own shot and missing.
West gave Temple a look, accepting the proffered drink. “And you don’t wish to continue the streak?”
Temple leaned against the back of a nearby chair and drank. “I’d rather speak unencumbered.”
The newspaperman stilled. “Should I, too, be unencumbered?”
Temple waved the glass in the direction of the carom field. “You play until I say something worth listening to.”
The suggestion seemed to work for West, he moved to survey the game. “Fair enough. How is the arm?”
“Attached,” Temple answered.
West nodded, setting the glass on the edge of the table, leaning over and lining up his shot. As he pulled back on the cue, Temple announced, “Mara Lowe is alive.”
West missed the shot, but he wasn’t paying attention, already turning to face Temple, eyes wide. “You’ve said something worth listening to.”
“I thought you might feel that way.”
West set his cue down. “As I’m sure you can imagine, I’ve a dozen questions. More.”
“And I’ll answer every one of them. What I cannot, she will.”
“You are able to speak for the woman?” West let out a low whistle. “This is a story. Where is she?”
“It is not important,” Temple said, suddenly uninterested in sharing the private details of Mara’s whereabouts. He drank again. Liquid courage. Where the hell had that thought come from? “Do you plan to attend the Leighton Christmas Masque?”
West knew a good story when he saw one, and he knew better than to refuse. “I assume Miss Lowe will be in attendance?”
“She will be.”
“And you intend to introduce her to me?” Temple nodded. West was intelligent, and able to put the pieces together. “That’s not it, though.”
“Is it ever?” Cross said from his place at the carom table.
“You want the girl ruined,” West said.
Did he?
“I don’t blame you.” The newspaperman continued, “But I won’t be your puppet in this. I came because Chase summoned me, and I owe him. I’ll hear your story. Your side. But I’ll hear hers, as well, and if I don’t think she deserves the shaming, she won’t get it from me.”
“Since when are you so noble?” Bourne interjected. “The story will sell papers, will it not?”
A shadow crossed West’s face, there then gone so quickly that Temple would have missed it if he hadn’t been watching so closely. “Suffice to say, I’ve ruined enough people with my papers that I am no longer required to do the bidding of every aristocrat with a vendetta.” He met Temple’s eyes. “Does she deserve it?”
It was the question Temple had hoped he wouldn’t be asked.
The question he’d hoped he’d never have to answer.
Because a week ago, he would have said yes, unequivocally. A week ago, he would have argued that the girl deserved everything that came her way—every ounce of justice he could mete out with his power and strength and influence.
But now, the unequivocal was becoming more complex. And he could not think of her simply. Suddenly, he thought of the way she teased him when she forgot that they were enemies. The way she faced him as his equal. The way she dealt nimbly with her students and with the men at his club. The way she gave herself up to his kiss. To his touch. The way she cradled that idiot pig in her arms as though she were the best companion for which a woman could ask.
The way insidious little thoughts inched into the back of his mind, teasing him into wondering if he couldn’t be something better than the damn pig.
He downed the rest of his scotch, turning back to get more.
Christ. He was comparing himself to a pig now.
So, did she deserve his vengeance? He didn’t know any longer. But when he thought of his past—of the life he could have had, of the pleasure he’d taken in his title, in his role, in his potential—he couldn’t stop the anger from threatening.