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And, for many reasons, terrifying.
Because it was a combination Pierce innately understood would touch him in ways he’d never been touched, render him vulnerable in ways he couldn’t refute, couldn’t master.
Couldn’t allow.
For thirty years he’d lived, worked, and prospered alone, and he had no wish to alter that reality. To him, autonomy meant survival. Oh, he cared deeply about those who needed him, about his cause, about many.
But never about one.
Yet she was the Marquis of Tragmore’s daughter.
Pierce laced his fingers behind his head, accosted by a question he’d tried desperately to elude.
What did that bastard do to her?
Visions crawled into Pierce’s mind like odious insects, too heinous to be ignored. How many times, during his workhouse days, had he borne witness to the marquis’s vile temper? How many children had Tragmore tormented? How many others had he thrashed?
Dear lord, did he beat her?
Pierce felt his insides twist.
She’d implied as much to the bandit. But for God’s sake, how could he? Daphne was his only child. She was small and delicate and beautiful.
And I’m thinking like an insipid fool, Pierce chastised himself bitterly. Who could be more fragile and unprotected than starving workhouse children? And if he brutalized them…
Frantically, Pierce recalled tonight’s burglary, reliving the moments he’d spent with Daphne. No. He’d seen no welts on her neck or shoulders, no bruises on her slender arms. Of course that didn’t mean anything. Tragmore was a smart man, too smart to leave such damning evidence unconcealed.
She was terrified of her father. Pierce had seen it, felt it, at Newmarket.
What prompted that fear? Was it Tragmore’s violence?
Protective tenderness surged inside him, and Pierce tightened his grip until his knuckles turned white. Daphne needed him. It was that simple. And, whatever the risk, he would be there for her.
Would she welcome his presence?
That sudden, ironic thought inserted itself, and Pierce shot to his feet and began pacing the length of the room.
His lack of title and position wouldn’t deter her, not Daphne. Just as he deemed her heritage an accident of birth, he instinctively knew she would view his background in much the same light. But how would she feel when she learned of Pierce’s enmity for her father, of the vengeance he was determined to exact?
Because taking Tragmore’s money was only the beginning. Pierce intended to see him in hell.
And whether Daphne feared her father or not, whether Tragmore were the most contemptible of scoundrels, Daphne was too fine a person to forsake the man who’d sired her, especially to walk into the arms of the enemy who sought to destroy him.
Which left Pierce—where?
Rife with questions; short on answers.
All but one.
Daphne’s true loyalties were clear and irrefutable. Like him, she sought to protect those less fortunate than she, as well as those in danger.
Tonight, she’d protected the Tin Cup Bandit.
Grinning at the memory of Daphne’s outrageous actions, Pierce felt more than a spark of pride. Heedless of her own safety, she’d spared him from Tragmore’s ruthlessness, taking the ruby to her father’s chambers so the bandit could escape undetected.
Her selflessness, her cunning, her earnest need to help, the inner beauty that melded with her physical radiance, made him want her all the more.
And she wanted him. Badly.
