Page 47 of The Duchess Curse

“You will attend a ball. As the Duchess of Braxton. It’s one thing to murder a potion master without position or family, after all, but quite another to target a duchess. You’ll be safe once everyone knows who you are!” She clapped then folded her hands in her lap. “I’ll select the perfect event at which you can reveal your identity and let you know.” She waved them toward the door. “Until then, please do not disturb me with your domestic disputes.” She picked up the letter she’d been reading when Guin had arrived. “I’ve my own domestic future to consider and do not appreciate the distraction.”

Her return to reading was their sign to leave, and when Bran wrapped one big hand on her shoulder to steer her toward the door, she ripped out of his hold.

“I do not need an escort.”

“You’ve got one. You cannot run off like that.”

“You cannot lie to your wife!” She spoke too loudly, and her words bounced off the glass ceiling, echoed back to her. This was no place for an argument. She stormed outside, Bran close behind her.

Ned appearing from the shadows, and Bran motioned for the other guard to stand back. The glamour was spreading across his body, shifting ill-dressed reality to faux perfection. His face was the last to go, sunlight wrapping it in golden hues.

“I have no desire to see you ever again, Braxton.”

A cloud rolled over the sun and the glamour flickered out again. If Braxton’s glamour was haughty and confident, Bran’s actual face—scarred and brutally beautiful—was drowning, gasping for air. The sorrow in his green eyes might drown her too, the downturned corners of his mouth could pierce her right through the chest.

There was her Bran, her friend, the man she’d grieved for months. She’d thought he’d burned to ash with everything else, a victim of her cursed birth. She’d killed him, she’d thought, by loving him.

And here he was—very much alive, making a mockery of her pain, her love.

“Bloody hell,” Ned whispered. “What’s all this about? Are you… him? Are you Bran?” He stared, open mouthed, into the duke’s face.

“Yes,” Bran clipped. “I’ll explain.”

“I bloody well hope so.”

Guin tore through the gardens, not waiting for either guard, not waiting for something flimsy and useless as hope to explain anything at all about this nightmare.

Bran chased after her, and when they reached the street, he caught her, grabbing her by the waist and throwing her up onto a waiting horse. He mounted behind her, banding her to his chest with one muscled arm.

“I’m not letting you out of my sight,” he said. “Do you understand?”

He didn’t deserve an answer. She didn’t even nod. But he was too strong to fight with muscle and she was suddenly terribly, terribly tired. When the horse started forward, she collapsed against Bran, that old sense of safety wrapping her round as surely as his arm.

She hated him. Hated what he’d done. But…

Bran. Bran! He wasn’t dead! She wanted to bury her face in his chest and cling to every inch of him and cry.

They rode for some time before he said, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Ha.” That hardened her. She sat upright, putting as much space between their bodies as possible.

“It’s true. I left you alone for years. After you left, I hired a guard to follow you about. He sent me weekly notes assuring me you were okay. It wasn’t until the first murder attempt I became Bran. The fellow I hired died fending off an attacker, and I knew I had to do it myself.”

“He… died.” She’d not even known anyone had been following her.

“You set an ad in the paper for a guard, and I took the opportunity. I had training, and it was wasted in my life as a duke. You were off being who you were meant to be, you were free, and I was still locked up in a glamoured cage. When offered the chance, I escaped.”

“Only to lock me up in return.”

“When did I lock you up? When did I limit your freedom? I walked beside you day and night so you could be free.”

She couldn’t argue with that. “You lied.”

“Would you have accepted me had I introduced myself as your husband? Or would you have let some fool nonsense about a curse turn away the most qualified guard you were ever likely to find?”

“It’s not nonsense.” But he wasn’t wrong. She’d left to keep him safe. And he’d followed, voiding every single sacrifice she’d made.

“My living proves it’s nonsense, Guin. I have followed you about for years, facing every danger possible, including a fire, and here I am. As alive and healthy as you are. There is no curse.”