Page 69 of The Duchess Curse

He released her when one of the men started their way, pleased to see a cessation of steamy breath near her lips for a moment before a small translucent cloud puffed out again. She may hate him, but she wasn’t immune to him.

Lord Maryville sat atop his horse like he’d been born to it, and he rode toward them with the kind of confidence learned when still in a gilt-gold cradle. When he reached them, he said, “You’re not welcome here.”

“I go where I please.” Bran could be a haughty lord, too, even if it was all an act.

“Take your harlot home first, then.”

“Harlot?” Guin laughed. “Is that the worst you can do, Maryville? Even your assassins were better equipped to pain me, and they were ill-equipped indeed. Tell me, how is that one recovering from the knife wound I put in his gut?”

Maryville’s face flushed violently, a mottled red and white. He bared his teeth, and as he tried to find words biting enough to meet Guin’s careless insult, Bran slipped his cravat pin from his throat and called his body heat to lengthen it into a blade. It glowed as it grew, and when he blew on it to cool the metal—not necessary but certainly dramatic—the cutting whistle of wind against steel seemed to clear the morning fog.

Maryville cut him a look, blanched.

“Do you think, my love,” Bran said calmly, holding the steel up between him and the other man, “Maryville here requires personal knowledge of what his mercenary felt?”

“Quite possibly.” Guin sounded oh-so chipper.

“I’m not sure. He is a coward, happy to send out hired villains to attack a woman instead of facing her himself.”

“Oh, but I’m hardly a woman, am I?”

“You’re my duchess.”

“Indeed. But more than that, too.” Guin reached across the space between them and ran her hand along his jaw, smoothed the creases of his cravat. “I’m Lady Guinevere, potion master capable of swaying men’s hearts.”

“I suppose it would be more fitting,” Bran said, “if you made him fall desperately in love with you. Right here.”

Maryville backed away, his horse skittering under his own nervousness.

“Oh no.” Guin cupped Bran’s cheek. “I do not care for any man to love me.”

“Too late.” He placed a kiss in the center of her gloved palm. Then, holding Guin’s gaze, he twirled the knife between the fingers of one hand and spoke only for Maryville. “Should any man think of hurting you, I’d have to kill him.” He stopped with the hilt of the knife clutched in a fist and pointed it at Maryville, drawing a line down his center. “But if any man ever falls in love with you, I’ll make him suffer.”

“Not if I get to him first.” Guin twisted in her saddle and kissed his cheek as if their conversation were about their afternoon plans. “I’m bored, Braxton. Shall we go find more diverting company?”

Now he sought out Maryville’s gaze, held it fast. “Let’s. And hopefully I have no reason to seek out less diverting company again. Come along, duchess.”

“She wasn’t a duchess then!” Maryville shouted after him.

Bran stopped, said loudly. “How long have we been married, darling?”

“Six years last autumn, according to the St. Paul registry.” The corner of Guin’s mouth quivered.

“Your allegations are outrageous!” Maryville screamed. “You have no proof.”

They turned and trotted away, but not before Bran saw Maryville begin to shiver and curse.

“That’s it? That’s all we’re doing?” Guin whispered.

“For now. Remember, back this afternoon.”

“Do you think it worked?” Guin asked.

“I do. Speed up. We have to get far east now.”

“Why?” She met his speed with ease and grace.

“The new potion shop I told you about. It’s hidden, and there’s a code phrase you need to get in. Whoever’s running it doesn’t have the connections I had to keep you out of trouble. But Hesperus has come into possession of the code. We’re going to have a little talk with the one running it.”