His steps quieted with years of instinct, knowing that it was this walk—the last hundred yards to his town house—where those who lurked found their courage.
Because of this, it was no surprise he was being followed.
It had happened before—men desperate enough to take him on, to wield knives and clubs in the hope that a single, well-placed blow would level him long enough to relieve him of his purse.
And if it laid him flat forever, well then, so be it. It was the way of the streets, after all.
He’d faced them before. He’d fought them before, spilling blood and teeth here on the cobblestones of Newgate with a ferocity that was missing in the ring of The Fallen Angel.
He’d fought them, and won. Dozens. Scores.
And still, there was always some new, desperate sinner who followed, mistaking the fine wool of Temple’s coat for weakness.
He slowed, fixed on the steps behind him, different than usual. Missing the weight of drink and poor judgment. Fast and focused and nearly on top of him before he noticed what it was that set these footsteps apart.
He should have noticed earlier. Should have understood immediately why there was something so uncommon about this particular pursuer. So unsettling. He should have sensed it, if for no other reason than because of what this follower was not.
Because, in all the years that he had been shadowed down these darkened alleyways—in all the years he’d lifted his fists to a stranger—his attacker had never been female.
He waited for her to close the distance.
There was a hesitation in her step as she came closer, and he marked time with his stride, long and languorous, knowing that he could turn and eliminate this particular threat at any moment.
But it wasn’t every day that he was surprised.
And the chit behind him was nothing if not surprising.
She was close enough to hear her breath, fast and shallow—the telltale sign of energy and fear. As though she were new at this. As though she were the victim.
And perhaps she was.
She was a yard from him. A foot. Six inches before he turned, reaching for and catching her by the wrists, pulling her close—the realization that she was unarmed coming on a wave of warmth and lemon scent.
She wasn’t wearing gloves.
He barely had time to register the fact before she gasped, going utterly still for a split second before first tugging at her wrists and, once discovering them caught in his strong grip, struggling in earnest.
She was taller than most, and stronger than he expected. She didn’t cry or call out, instead using all her breath, all her strength, to fuel her attempt to extricate herself, which made her smarter than most of the men he’d met in the ring.
She was no match for him, however, and so he held her. Tight and firm, until she gave up.
He rather regretted that she gave up.
But she did, realizing the futility of her actions after a long moment . . . hesitating briefly before she turned her face up to his and said, “Release me.”
There was something in the words, a quiet, unexpected honesty that almost made him do it. Almost made him let her go, to run off into the night.
Almost.
But it had been a long time since he’d been so intrigued by an opponent.
Pulling her closer, he easily transferred both her wrists into one of his hands as he used the other to check her cloak for weapons.
His hand closed on the hilt of a knife, hidden deep in the lining of the cloak. He extracted it. “No, I don’t think I will.”
“That’s mine,” she said, reaching for the weapon, cursing as he held it out of her reach.
“I don’t care for late-night meetings with armed attackers.”
“I’m not armed.”
He raised a brow.
She exhaled harshly. “I mean, I am armed, of course. It’s the dead of night and anyone with the sense of a trout would be. But I have no intention of stabbing you.”
“And I’m simply to take your word for it?”
Her words came straight and true. “If I wanted to stab you, you’d have been stabbed.”
He cursed the darkness and its secrets, wanting to see her face. “What are you after?” He asked softly, sliding the knife into his boot, “My pockets? You should have picked a smaller mark.” Though he wasn’t exactly sorry that she’d chosen him. He liked it.
Even more when she answered.
“I’m after you.”
The response was quick enough to be true, and to shock the hell out of him.
Wariness flared. “You’re not a lightskirt.”
The words were not a question. It was clear the woman wasn’t a whore—in the way she stiffened in response to his statement, keeping space between them.
She wasn’t comfortable with a man’s touch.
With his touch.
She redoubled her efforts to free herself. “Is that all people want from you? Your purse or your—” She stopped, and Temple resisted the urge to laugh. She most certainly was not a prostitute.
“The two options are usually enough for women.” He stared into her dark face, wishing for a street lamp. For a shadow of light from a nearby window. “All right, darling, if not my purse or my . . .” He trailed off, enjoying the way her breath caught before he finished. She was curious. “ . . . prowess, what then?”
She took a deep breath, its weight falling between them, as though what she were about to say would change her world. Would change his. He waited, barely noticing that his breath held, as well.
“I’m here to challenge you.”
He let her go and turned away, irritation and frustration and not a small amount of disappointment flaring. She hadn’t come for him as a man. She’d come for him as a means to an end. Just as they always did.
Her boots clattered on the cobblestones as she ran after him. “Wait.”
He did not wait.
“Your Grace—” The title cut through the darkness. Stung. She wouldn’t get anywhere with such good manners. “Hold a moment. Please.”
It might have been the softness in the word. It might have been the word itself—one the Killer Duke did not often hear—that stopped him. Turned him back. “I don’t fight women. I don’t care who your lover is. Tell him to find his manhood and come after me himself.”
“He doesn’t know I’m here.”
“Perhaps you should have told him. Then he might have stopped you from making the rash and reckless decision to stand in the dead of night in the middle of a dark alley with a man widely believed to be one of the most dangerous in Britain.”
“I don’t believe that.”
Something flared deep in him at the words. At the truth in them. And for the briefest of moments, he considered reaching for her again. Taking her to his town house.
It had been a long time since a woman had intrigued him.
Sanity returned. “You should believe it.”
“It’s nonsense. It has been since the beginning.”
His gaze narrowed on her. “Go home and find yourself a man who cares enough to save you from yourself.”
“My brother lost a great deal of money,” she said, her words clear in the darkness, tinged at the same time with proper education and an East London edge. Not that he cared about her accent. Or about her.
“I don’t fight women.” There was comfort in the repetition. In the reminder that he had never hurt a woman. Another woman. “And your brother seems smarter than most. I also don’t lose to men.”
“I wish to reclaim the money, nonetheless.”
“I want a number of things that I shan’t have,” he tossed back at her.