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She hesitated only a fraction of a second before she smoothed the cloth back up his spine.

“I…” His shoulders moved restlessly. “I didn’t know what to do. How to find their killer. I was angry.”

She thought about a boy deprived of his parents in such a shocking way. “Angry” was probably a great understatement.

“I spent the next two months doing what I had to. I was the duke.” His shoulders bunched and flexed. “But every night I thought about my parents—and what I would do to their murderer when I found him. I was fairly tall for my age—nearly six feet tall—and I thought I could defend myself. I started going into St. Giles at night.”

Artemis shuddered at the thought of any boy—for a fourteen-year-old youth was still a boy to her mind—going into St. Giles after dark, no matter how tall he might be.

“I had a fencing master and I considered myself quite good,” Maximus continued. “Still, it wasn’t enough. I was badly beaten and robbed by a footpad one night. I got two black eyes. Craven was quite angry.”

“You had Craven even then?”

He nodded. “Craven had been my father’s valet. I suspect he made inquiries. The next day as I lay in bed, I had a caller.”

She drew the cloth gently over his shoulders. “Who?”

“His name was Sir Stanley Gilpin. He was a business partner and friend of my father’s—not a particularly close one, actually, as I found out later.”

“Why did he visit?” She’d finished washing his back, but she was loath to stop touching him. Gingerly she stroked a bare finger over the bunched muscle at his neck. It was so hard.

“That’s what I wondered,” he said, swiveling his head a bit. She couldn’t tell if he disliked her touch or not, but he didn’t protest, so she laid her hand against his skin, feeling the heat. “I’d never met him before. That first day he stayed an hour, talking about Father and other, more inconsequential things.”

“First day?” she questioned softly, daring to place both hands on his back. “He came back?”

“Oh, yes.” He bowed his head and arched his back into her hands, like a giant cat urging her to stroke. “He came back every day for the week that I was abed. And then at the end of that week he told me he could train me so that I wouldn’t be beaten the next time I went to St. Giles to look for my parents’ murderer.”

Her hands stilled for a moment as she heard his words. On the one hand, she was glad someone had cared enough—been strong enough—to train him so he wouldn’t be hurt. On the other, he’d been only fourteen.

Fourteen and already preparing for a life of hunting.

It seemed wrong somehow.

He pushed back against her hands in silent command, so she began rubbing over his shoulder blades, feeling the thick flesh bound over strong bone.

He sighed and his shoulders seemed to relax a bit. “I went with him and found that he had a sort of training place—a big room in his house where there were sawdust dummies and swords. He showed me how to use the swords not as a gentleman, but as the footpads might. He taught me not to fight fair, but to fight to win.”

“How long?” she asked, her voice choked.

“What?” He started to look over his shoulder, but she dug her thumbs into the ropes of muscle on either side of his spine. Instead he groaned and let his head fall.

“How long did you train like this with Sir Stanley?” she whispered.

“Four years,” his voice was almost absent. “Mostly by myself.”

“Mostly?”

He shrugged. “At the beginning, when I first came, there was another boy, a sort of ward of Sir Stanley’s. Actually I suppose he was a young man—he must’ve been eighteen at the time. I remember that he fought ferociously—when he wasn’t reading—and he had a dry sense of humor. I rather liked him.”

Maximus’s admission was almost whispered to himself. Artemis felt tears prick at her eyelids. Had he had any friends of his own age after his parents’ death—or had he spent all his time training for revenge? “What happened to him?”

Maximus was silent so long she thought he might not answer, but then he rolled one shoulder. “Went off to university. I remember I got a package from him once—a book. Moll Flanders. It’s rather risqué. I think I still have it around here somewhere. Later, after I’d left, Sir Stanley trained a third boy. I’ve met him once or twice. I suppose we three were sort of Sir Stanley’s legacy. Strange. I haven’t spoken to either about that time—about any of it—in years.” He sounded troubled.

is waited, shifting from one foot to another, disappointment seeping through her breast as the door remained silently closed. Perhaps he hadn’t meant to see her again. Perhaps he’d thought it only a one-time event. Perhaps he was bored with her now.

Well. She wasn’t yet finished with him.

She tried the handle and found the door unlocked. She quickly pushed it open and entered, closing it just as quickly behind her.

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