Page 72 of The Duke
“Perhaps you might consider that your pain isn’t weakness,” she posited. Covered by the cloth, her fingers traced the swell of his bicep, the curious indents created by so many muscles working in tandem. “In your particular struggle lies a very unique form of strength.” She dipped the cloth back into the water, which came away pink as she wrung it out. “Sometimes, the widest shoulders carry the heaviest burdens,” she murmured, trailing the cloth along the nape of his neck. His great body shuddered in response, and a different tension seemed to bunch the muscles there. “You’re not an animal, Cole, you’re a hero.”
His back expanded as he filled his lungs with what seemed to be a painful breath. “You. Don’t. Know. You can’t imagine.”
“Idon’tknow,” she agreed. “I do not profess to comprehend your suffering. I simply cannot.” She cast about for an idea and caught one immediately. “Maybe there are those who can. Other wounded soldiers like you. Men who feel broken, who had pieces of their minds and bodies taken from them by their enemies.”
“They didn’t take my hand.”
“What?” She couldn’t have heard him right. Perhaps the blood heating her ears prevented her from understanding him correctly.
“They didn’t take my hand,” he repeated between his teeth.
Stunned, her cloth stilled upon his back. “Then… who…?”
“I did.”
Imogen couldn’t remember another moment in her entire life she’d been more absolutely stupefied.
“That… you… why?” She wished she could see his face, that she could read his expression, but her body refused to obey any of her commands.
“At night they’d chain us to the wall so they didn’t have to post guards. These cuffs were no hinged iron, but some Asian steelwork that, to me, seemed like magic at the time. When Ravencroft broke into the prison to extract me, we both worked on unhinging it, but someone saw us and raised the alarm.” He lifted his left arm, holding the cold steel in front of his face as though inspecting a memory. “It was our only chance. Escape or both die in that prison… or worse. We winched my arm, I took the Scotsman’s dirk, and he helped me saw through my wrist.”
“Oh dear God,” she gasped.
His head snapped to the side. “I told you not to pity me,” he snarled over his shoulder.
Imogen snatched her hand from his shoulder, quick as one would from a growling hound. “You can’t command things like that,” she reproached in a quavering voice. “How can I help but feel sympathy for someone who’s undergone such suffering?” She bent to pick up the white cloth, forever stained with his blood, and shook it at him like a scolding nanny. “Pity is not disgrace, it iscompassion. And compassion is something thateveryonedeserves.”
He stood then, rising to his intimidating height, and took a step toward the door without so much as a by-your-leave. “Not one such as I.”
“Especiallyyou,” she insisted.
He whirled on her then, a wolf of wrath and rage. An animal too fierce to be caged. Lord, how did men erect walls thick enough to contain such a man?
They hadn’t.
He’d escaped them.
“Do you know how many people I’ve murdered?” he spat. “How many have suffered because of me?”
Imogen shook her head, placing her hand to contain a fugitive heart. He thrust his mismatched hands toward her. “When your hands are stained with enough blood, it becomes a part of you. Past your own veins and meat. Past your bones and marrow. It doesn’t stop until it stains your soul.”
“I don’t believe that,” Imogen said stubbornly. “Not of you!”
“What do you know about it? Have you ever killed a man?”
She hesitated. Unable to conjure an honest answer. Because in truth, she didn’t know. She may have. She still might be called to account for it.
“That’s what I thought.” Eyes narrowed and lips pulled into a cruel sneer, he made a derisive gesture at her. “Don’t turn your compassion to me, woman. I’m beyond your grace, I think.”
He turned to leave.
“No.”Something in her voice froze him mid-step. Maybe it was the defiance. Maybe it was the deference. She’d never know, and it really didn’t matter. Squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin, she took a step toward him. “Those men you killed on my porch were beyond grace. Butnotyou.”
A gilded fire turned his eyes an unnatural shade. “How dare you presume to—”
“I can presume to do or say what I wish. This is my home and that is my thread in your arm, so you will listen.” Her logic wasn’t sound, but effective, she thought, as his teeth snapped shut with an audible clack. His nostrils continued to flare in warning as he crossed two long, impressive arms over an equally imposing chest.
Imogen had to admit that his stature and stance stole a little of her bluster, but… as they said,in for a penny…
