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Behind them, the door to his bedroom opened.
“Get out,” he growled to whichever servant had dared disturb him.
There was a squeak and the door was hastily shut.
Below him, Artemis cocked an eyebrow. “That was ill done.”
He scowled. “Would you like her to witness our coupling?”
“Don’t be crude.” She pushed against his chest and he reluctantly gave way—only because he knew he was behaving like a churlish knave. She rose gloriously nude from the bed. “Besides, they’ll all know soon enough, won’t they? That I’m your mistress?”
He snorted, hitting the bed with one arm as he sprawled.
She raised a delicate eyebrow. “That is what you want, isn’t it?”
“I can’t have what I want.”
“Can’t you?” Her voice was light, nearly careless. “But you’re the Duke of Wakefield, one of the most powerful men in England. You sit in Parliament, you own many estates, you have so much money you could bathe in it, and if that weren’t enough, you go into St. Giles at night to risk death.” She bent to pick up her chemise, discarded from the night before, and when she rose she pinned him with a challenging stare. “Isn’t that right?”
He sneered. “You know that it is.”
“Then, Your Grace, it follows that you can have anything and anyone you like even, apparently, me. Please don’t insult me by telling me otherwise.”
He closed his eyes. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Shouldn’t there be a little bit of joy in making her his? “What do you want?”
There was silence, broken only by a faint rustling. When he opened his eyes she was buttoning his banyan over her chemise.
“Nothing, I think,” she said to her hands. Then, “My freedom, perhaps.”
Freedom. He stared. What did freedom mean to such a wild creature? Did she want to be entirely quit of him?
“I’ll not let you go,” he snapped.
She glanced up at him and her look was sardonic. “Did I ask you to?”
“Artemis—”
“At the moment,” she said, suddenly brisk, “the only thing I want is my brother’s release. You’ve put chains upon him.”
“Of course I put a chain on him—he’s recovering fast and he’s quite muscular.” He frowned on a thought. “You shouldn’t be visiting him now that he can move about—he might grab you.”
She gave him an incredulous look.
He grimaced. “I can find a suitable place for him, perhaps a room with a barred door—”
“You mean a cage.”
“We’ve already discussed this: I’ll not let a madman near you.”
She sighed and came to sit on the bed beside him. “He woke up in a tavern four years ago with the bodies of three of his friends around him. He didn’t kill them. The most he can be blamed for is drinking too much.”
Maximus cocked an eyebrow. “Then why was Kilbourne committed to Bedlam?”
She reached over and stroked his uplifted eyebrow. “Because no one believed him when he said he didn’t remember what had happened or how his friends came to be killed. Because my uncle thought it better to hurry him into Bedlam rather than risk a trial.”
“Yet you expect me to believe him innocent?”
“Yes.” Her lips twisted. “Or rather I expect you to believe me when I say that I know my brother and he would never kill any man, let alone his friends, in a drunken rage.”
