She hesitated at the foot of the stairs, immediately backing away from the space to watch.
“He made me angry,” George was saying, simply. It was not the first time he and Daniel had gone head to head. It would not be the last.
Temple nodded, his attention focused on the boy. “And so?”
“And so I hit him.”
Shock flooded Mara. Physical aggression was not allowed inside MacIntyre’s. Obviously, allowing a bare-knuckle boxer into the orphanage was a horrible idea. She started into the foyer when Temple said, “Why?”
She stopped at the strange question, one she would not have though to ask. One George had trouble answering. He shrugged, looking down at his shuffling feet.
“A gentleman looks into the eyes of those with whom he is speaking.”
George looked up at Temple. “Because I wanted to make him angry, too.”
Temple nodded. “You wanted revenge.”
If the building had collapsed in that moment, Mara could not have stopped watching.
“Yes,” George said.
“And Daniel, did he have it?”
The other boy did not hesitate, pulling himself up straight. “No.”
Temple wanted to smile at the bravado; Mara could see it. Instead, he turned to face the other boy. “Truly? Because you seemed to grow quite angry once you were hit.”
“Of course I did!” Daniel said, as though Temple were mad. “He hit me! I was defending myself!”
Temple nodded, “Which is your right. But do you feel better now that you hit back?”
Daniel scowled. “No.”
Temple turned to George. “And do you feel avenged for whatever slight Daniel inflicted?”
George considered the question, his head tilted as he looked at Daniel for a long moment before he realized the truth. “No.”
Temple nodded. “Why not?”
“Because I am still angry.”
“Precisely. And what else?”
“And now Daniel is angry as well.”
“Exactly. And Lavender?”
The boys looked to Lavender.
“We didn’t see her!” Daniel said.
“She came from nowhere!” George cried.
“And she was nearly caught in your fray. Which could have been painful for her. Perhaps worse.” The boys were horrified. “Let that be the lesson. I am not telling you not to fight. I am simply telling you that when you do, you should do it for the right reasons.”
“Revenge isn’t the right reason?”
He went quiet for a long moment, and Mara held her breath, waiting for his answer. Knowing that he was thinking of something bigger than whatever had started the sparring match between the two boys. “In my experience,” he said, finally, “it does not always proceed as expected.”
What did that mean?
Another pause, and he added, “And sometimes it ends with a piglet in danger.” The boys smiled, George reaching out to pat Lavender’s little pink head as Temple moved on. “Now, more importantly, I would imagine your fists hurt no small amount.”
George shook out his hand. “How did you know that?”
Temple held out his own hand, the size of one of the boys’ heads. He made a fist. “You tucked your thumb inside.” He opened his hand and closed it again. “If you leave it on the outside, the blow hurts less.”
“Would you teach us how to fight?”
He did smile then, one side of his mouth turning up. Lord, he was handsome. And from here, tucked behind the stairs, she could look her fill. No one ever need know.
“I would be happy to.”
She should stop him before she had a battalion of well-trained pugilists on hand. And she might have, if he hadn’t turned to look at her, his gaze finding hers quick and true, sending her heart straight into her throat.
“Mrs. MacIntyre,” he said, “why don’t you join us?”
She’d been watching him for an age, quiet and still in the corner. If she were another woman, perhaps he wouldn’t have noticed.
But she was Mara Lowe, and he’d resigned himself to the realization that he would always notice her. That he was consumed with awareness of her, even as he wished he wasn’t. Even as he mistrusted her, and doubted her, and raged at her.
Even as he stood in her place of business and willed her to tell him the truth.
And so, when her young charges gave him an opportunity to bring her closer, he used it, enjoying the look of surprise on her face when she realized she’d been seen.
She came forward, doing her best to seem as though she hadn’t been eavesdropping. “Good afternoon, gentlemen!”
They faced her like little toy soldiers, each executing a perfect little bow. “Good afternoon, Mrs. MacIntyre,” they intoned as one.
She came up short. “My goodness! What a fine greeting.”
She loved the boys; that much was clear. A vision flashed. Mara, smiling down at a row of boys on the wide green grounds of Whitefawn Abbey. A row of dark-haired, dark-eyed boys, each happier than the next. His boys.
His Mara.
He shook his head and returned his attention to the situation at hand. “Mrs. MacIntyre, the boys are asking for a lesson in fighting, and I thought perhaps you would like to help.”
Her gaze went wide. “I wouldn’t know how to begin.”
The woman carried a knife on her person. Temple was willing to wager everything he had that she knew precisely where to begin. “All the more reason for you to learn.”
The boys, who had remained quiet up until that point, began to protest. “She can’t learn; she’s a girl!” one called out.
“Right,” another chimed in, “girls learn things like dancing. And sewing.”
The idea of Mara Lowe sewing anything but a knife wound was fairly laughable.
“She can learn,” George said, “but she doesn’t need to. Girls don’t have to fight.”
He did not like the memory that came quick and powerful, of Mara trapped on a Mayfair street by two animals stronger than her by half. He wanted her safe. Protected. And he could give her the tools to keep herself that way. “First, gentlemen don’t refer to ladies as girls,” Temple pointed out. “Second, you will all be learning to dance soon enough, I would think.” That bit drew a chorus of groans from his pupils. “And third, everyone should be prepared to protect him or herself.” He turned to Mara, extending his hand, “Mrs. MacIntyre?”
She hesitated, considering his hand for a long moment before making her decision, approaching, sliding her fingers into his. Once again, she was not wearing gloves, and in that moment, he wished that he wasn’t wearing them, either.
Perhaps this had not been a good idea. He’d meant to unsettle her, to draw her out.
He had not expected to be the one unsettled.
But this was the way of things with Mara Lowe.
He turned her to face the boys, and wrapped his hand around hers, moving her fingers into position, until she made a perfect fist. He spoke as he did so, attempting to ignore her nearness. “Try to keep all the muscles loose when you make your fist. It’s not the tightness of it that hurts your opponent, but the force. The tighter your fist, the more the blow will hurt you.”
The boys were nodding, watching, making their own fists, arms flailing about. Not so Mara. She held her fists like a fighter—close to her face, as though someone might come at her at any moment. She met his gaze, focused on him. Warming him.
He turned back to the boys. “Remember that, lads. The angrier you are, the more likely you are to lose.”
Daniel paused in his shadowboxing, his brow furrowed with confusion. “If you aren’t to fight when you’re angry, why then?”
An excellent question. “Defense.”
“If someone hits you first,” one of the other boys said.