Page 11 of To Hunt the Hunter

There was a disbelieving huff of laughter. “Think about it, Matilda.”

“The title,” she said, realising at once how obvious it was. “Oh, my… oh, Lucian. But surely, if you—”

“If I what?”

He turned around to face her, his expression hard, his voice as cool as emotionless as she’d ever heard it, as light as if he spoke of nothing more devastating than the weather.

“If I told someone?” One blond eyebrow lifted. “Oh, I tried that. The first time, I was twelve. My aunt Marguerite slapped my face and told me I was wicked and hateful, a vile liar with a spiteful imagination. I tried again a year later, and faced questions about my sanity, about my emotional stability and whether I was sane enough to take control when I came of age. Bedlam beckoned, much to my uncle’s amusement, so once again I was forced to back down. No one ever believed me, Matilda. Well, you’ve met him. You tell me. Isn’t he kind? So very genuine, so concerned for everyone’s wellbeing. He’s so terribly reasonable, so easy and charming and likeable, and I…. I am not.”

Matilda felt her chest constrict. When he was twelve. The first attempt on his life had been when he was twelve?

“I think he might have been content with controlling the power through me. It was his intention, I believe. The trouble was, unlike Thomas, I was not the least bit biddable. Uncle Theo tried to destroy everything our father had taught us, tried to discredit him and his ideas. Likely he thought that would be easy to do. It was not hard to see how impatient Father was with us, his barely concealed contempt for Thomas’ sickly nature and timidity, and my lack of enthusiasm for blood sports and all the things he believed made a man what he was.”

He paused and Matilda did not dare speak, not wanting to halt his explanation and sensing how hard it was for him to speak of such things. So she waited, patiently, as he gathered himself to continue.

“My father despised Theo and ignored us, and so Uncle believed we would turn against his values with ease. What he never understood was that I did not resent such treatment. My father was Montagu. No matter what you thought of the man, he held the title and the power and did a deal of good, both for the family and those who depend on it. My brother, Philip, was everything Montagu should be, yet with a warmth of manner none of the rest of us possessed. I knew that and I did not resent him. I admired him, for heaven’s sake… hero-worshipped him, if you want the truth. My uncle never understood it. He could not. Not when he resented his own brother so thoroughly.”

“How?” Matilda asked, hardly daring to, but she had wanted the truth.

He shrugged. “A riding accident the first time. The girth on my saddle worn through—with a little help. It gave way when I took a jump that my uncle assured me I could manage, though it was higher than anything I’d tackled before. Luckily, I only broke my arm, and uncle was so very contrite, so terribly remorseful. He sacked one of the grooms for that. I think I knew even then, in my gut. No one on the staff could have let something like that happen, but we were still friends then, he was still Uncle Theo, despite our disagreements. It wasn’t until a year later and the third unfortunate accident that the scales fell from my eyes. Finally, I allowed myself to believe that I was living with a monster, but by then it was too late.”

There was a such a bleak edge to the words, every one weighted with regret, with guilt.

“Why too late?” she asked, confused, for Lucian was alive and so his uncle had failed.

“He’d found the way to manipulate me. By hurting Thomas.”

Her breath caught, the shock of his words, the implications….

“Lucian, I’m so—”

“Don’t,” he said savagely, turning away from her. He dashed a hand over his eyes and walked farther around the tree, leaning back against the trunk.

Matilda followed him tentatively.

“Don’t spare your tender feelings for me, Matilda. It was Thomas who suffered, Thomas who….” He broke off and shook his head. “No more. I won’t… I can’t talk about this anymore.”

Matilda nodded, hearing the anguish behind his anger. She did not need him to explain that he’d never spoken of this before. It was too obvious. He watched her warily as she moved closer. Good lord, no wonder he kept everyone at arm’s length, when even those nearest to him could not be depended on. How foolish to consider trusting a stranger when your own family would betray you in a heartbeat. She ached for the terrified, lonely boy he must have been, and for the man he’d become, cold and powerful and isolated. But he wasn’t cold, that was the problem. He was alone, but not the least bit cold.

How she had the courage she did not know, but she lifted her hand to his cheek, an offer of comfort to someone who needed it so desperately.

“You suffered too, Lucian. He hurt you badly, and I am sorry. You ought not have been hurt and alone. I am so very sorry, whether or not you want me to be. You can’t stop me, you know. I wish I could make it better.”

He watched her, and his expression made something painful unfurl in her chest, as though he did not know how to take her words, as if no one had said such things to him before.

He shook his head, as if asking her to stop, but then he closed his eyes and turned his face into her palm, seeking the comfort she offered him.

“No more questions,” he said softly. “Just give me today. Please, Matilda. You must go, we both know it, but I am selfish enough to take this day for myself, if you’ll allow it.”

Matilda nodded, stroking her thumb over the high cheekbone of a face that could appear so cold and austere, but that was warm beneath her touch.

“Just a day,” she murmured, knowing what she would do and feeling her blood thrill in her veins at her own audacity.

She took a step closer to him, their bodies almost touching. His gaze sharpened, suddenly intent. “May I…”

“No.”

She had no resistance against him, not if he touched her as he so plainly wanted to. Never knowing what it was to kiss him was too dreadful to consider, but she could risk only this.