Page 43 of The Duchess Curse

“You don’t know.”

“Trust me. I know.”

He stepped toward her, and she flung an arm out.

“You’re Bran.”

He nodded.

“And Braxton.”

He nodded.

“I don’t understand.”

“Guin—”

“No. You stay there. I thought you were dead! And you were alive this whole time?”

“Guin—”

“No!” She was shaking everywhere now, and she hugged herself, trying to stop it. “It’s worse. You—Braxton… you’ve been Bran this whole time?”

“Let me explain.” His voice had that rough purr now, the Scottish brogue that had always run a delicious shiver right up her spine. He took another step closer.

“Don’t you dare get near me!”

“You’re pale. You’re shivering. You’ve been cut. Let me help you, and when you’re recovered, I’ll explain⁠—”

She punched him, felt the bones of his face rattle the bones in her hand.

“Fucking Jupiter,” he hissed, folding in half.

She laughed, a maniacal sort of thing as she staggered away from him.

He limped after her, caught her wrist, blood pouring down his nose. His crooked nose. She’d been with him when he’d broken it.

Bran.

Her husband.

Her guard.

The same man.

She tried to rip from his grip, but he held tight.

“No!” she said, her muscles melting. That seemed the only word she could muster as the ground rushed up to meet her. Because the one thing she’d prayed for since the fire had happened—Bran was back—and it was nothing but a nightmare.

10

AFTERMATH AND ATONEMENT

It was Bran who carried Guin’s limp body home and laid her in her bed. She was unconscious as he cleaned her wounds and left her in Susan’s care so he could clean himself.

He climbed into the copper tub and called his heat to warm the water as it poured around him. He could stoke an inner alchemist’s heat when necessary, for small tasks, but he was no proficient. He could do just enough to help him kill or protect, could use it to wield a blade, not forge one, and to heat the water as it rose, warm and steamy.

But it wasn’t enough to wash away his sins. Or Guin’s memory.