Alec's mouth hardened into a straight line, his eyes flaring with silver light.
"I don't want you," he muttered. "Though I might enjoy turning you over my knee and spanking the disrespectful hell out of you, you little imp of Satan."
"What's stopping you?" she asked gently.
It was a contest to see who would lose control first. Alec muttered something under his breath. He looked into her face and she smiled engagingly at him, with the expression of a child who had lit a Roman candle and was waiting for the explosion. Suddenly he grinned
folding his arms across his broad chest, his anger fading away.
"It amazes me," he said, "that you haven't given Sackville apoplexy yet."
"Lord Sackville finds my conversation very soothing."
"Then I've underestimated him unforgivably."
Mira laughed helplessly, hiding her face against her knees, and the sound of Alec's soft chuckle fell on her ears with delicious lightness.
"I think I've underestimated you, my lord," she said, her voice muffled, and then she lifted her head to stare at him with a bright, penetrating gaze.
"How so?"
"Until now I thought you were merely a pompous, judgmental boor."
"And now?" he asked.
"You are not pompous. And you are not a boor."
He was adept at concealing his emotions; she could read nothing in his expression. As the silence ripened Mira wondered if she had dared to tread too far. Perhaps he had become angry with her. His temper was unpredictable and quick-flashing… she sensed that he was not used to someone purposely trying his patience.
"But you think I'm judgmental?" he finally inquired.
"Aren't you?" she countered. "You like to form your opinions very quickly—and once you have, you don't like to change them." He was the kind of man, she was certain, who would defend those he loved without hesitation… and would fight his enemies until there was no breath left in his body. "It's a dangerous fault, I think… since you may someday risk losing something very important—just because it doesn't fit into your scheme of things."
"Why do you say that?" he whispered, looking so wary and angry that Mira knew she had hit a vulnerable spot. She backed down immediately, her voice faltering.
"I… I don't know. I… just thought…"
"Someone once said almost those exact words to me."
"Who?"
"My cousin."
"The one who… who died in a duel?" Mira asked timidly.
He pinned her with a splintered-crystal stare, something so raw in his gaze that she wished she had kept her mouth shut.
"It was not a duel. I found him in an alley, beaten to death." Alec closed his eyes, unable to repress the memory from filling his mind with darkness—Holt, nearly the mirror image of him, the same black hair and well-defined Falkner features. Since boyhood they had pulled each other out of scrapes and trusted each other more than they had trusted their own brothers. Holt had been more likable than Alec, less sarcastic in speech, more carefree, more tender with people. He was the only one who could make Alec laugh right in the middle of an awe-inspiring storm of rage… yes, that had been Holt's talent—seeing the ironies of life and the weakness of human nature, and caring for people in spite of their faults. He and Alec would have died for each other, their bond fast and deep because they were Falkners and because they understood each other.
After Holt had failed to show up one night at the Rummer, a popular London tavern where they had agreed to meet, Alec began to search for him, rounding up his friends to scour the web of shadowy streets and alleys. Alec had been the first to find him… oh God, the sight of his long, broken body sprawled on the ground… Holt!… he had buried his face in the rough linen waistcoat, his mind reeling with the bruises, the blood everywhere, Holt's hands curled in a frozen spasm. Alec had turned into a stranger to himself, vicious and howling with grief, unable to stop even after becoming aware that his friends were trying to pull him away from the mangled body. Some of those friends would still not meet his eyes, even now, so many months after it had happened. Sinking into utter moroseness, Alec had hated the entire world for months after that, especially himself. If only he had known… if only he had been able to help Holt. But even after facing what had happened and understanding that he had to go on, Alec found that the unanswered questions kept plaguing him. Who had beaten Holt to death, and for what reason? Why, for God's sake, hadn't Holt's money or valuables been taken? His possessions had been left there, even the round gold Falkner medallion that he had always worn around his neck. Holt's death had been all that the unknown assassin had required.