“But why would they hit you first?” George countered. “Unless they’re angry, and breaking the rules?”
“Perhaps they’ve bad manners,” Daniel suggested, and everyone laughed.
“Or they’ve poor training,” Temple added with a smile.
“Or you’re hurting someone they care for,” Henry said. “I would hit someone if they hurt Lavender.”
The boys nodded as one.
“Protection.” Temple’s knuckles still ached from the night of Mara’s attack. He looked to her, grateful for her safety. “That’s the very best reason to fight.”
Her cheeks pinkened, and he found he enjoyed the view. “Or perhaps they’ve made a mistake,” she said.
What did that mean?
Something was there, in those strange, beautiful eyes. Regret?
Was it possible?
“What next, Your Grace?” The boys recaptured his attention.
He made his own fists, holding them high at his face. “You protect your head always. Even when taking your punch.” He moved his left leg forward. “Your left arm and leg should lead. Knees bent.”
The boys moved into position, and he went down their line, adjusting a shoulder here, a fist there. Reminding them to keep knees bent and stay fluid on their feet. And when he was through with the last of the boys, he turned to Mara, who stood, fists up, waiting for him.
As though they were in constant battle.
Which they were.
He came toward her. “It’s more difficult with ladies,” he said softly, “as I cannot see your legs.” What he wouldn’t give to see her legs. He moved behind her, settling his hands to her shoulders. “May I?”
She nodded. “You may.”
There were two dozen watchful boys with them, all playing chaperone. Nothing about touching her should feel clandestine, and yet the contact sizzled through him.
He rocked her back and forth on her feet, one knee sliding forward to test the length of her stride, the slide of fabric against his trouser leg enough to make his mouth dry. He was close enough to hear her quick intake of breath, to smell her—the light scent of lemons even now, in December, when only the wealthiest of Londoners had them.
If she were his, he’d fill the house with lemon trees.
If she were his?
What nonsense. She was tall and lithe and beautiful, and he would want any woman of her ilk if she were this close.
Lie.
He stepped away. “Keep your fists high and your head down. Remember that a man fights from his shoulders.”
“And what of a woman?” she asked. “Do they fight from somewhere else?”
He looked to her, finding her gaze light with humor. Was she teasing him? The idea was strange and incongruous with their past, but no—those blue-green eyes were fairly twinkling. She was teasing him.
“In my experience, women fight dirty.”
She smiled, then. “Nonsense. We simply fight from the heart.”
He believed that about her. Without question. This was a woman who fought for what she wanted, and for those in whom she believed. She would fight for these boys, and—it seemed—for her brother, despite his being thoroughly despicable.
But she fought with purpose. And there was honor in that.
He wondered what it would be like to have her fight for him.
It would be like nothing else.
He pushed the thought from his mind and returned his attention to the boys, even as he couldn’t stop himself from touching her. He adjusted her head, making it seem utterly professional, even as each touch rocketed through him. “Keep your heads tilted forward.” Had her hair always been so soft?
“Don’t hold your chin up, or you’ll risk being clocked here . . .” He brushed his knuckles beneath her chin, where soft skin tempted him like a pile of sweets. “And here.” His fisted fingers slid down the long column of her neck, to where her pulse pounded strong and firm beneath his touch.
She inhaled sharply, and he knew she felt it, too.
The pleasure.
The want.
Who was this woman? What were they doing to each other?
With difficulty, he pulled away from her. Raised his voice. Spoke to the boys. “The blow doesn’t come from your arm. It comes from your body. From your legs. Your arms are simply the messenger.” He threw a punch into the air, and the boys gasped.
“Cor! That was fast!”
“You must be the strongest man in the world?”
“Now all of you take a turn.”
The boys were thrilled to punch at the air, bouncing back and forth on their newly light feet. He watched them for a long while, gaze lingering on the eldest—Daniel. The dark-haired, serious boy was focused on his jabs, eager for Temple’s approval, and there was something familiar there. Something Temple recognized as like him.
Dark hair. Dark eyes. Eleven years old.
The boy had blue eyes, but otherwise, he had Temple’s coloring.
Eyes the blue of Mara’s.
She’d said the boy had been with her forever. He took that to mean since birth. Since she’d given birth to him?
Was the child his son?
And if he was, why had she hidden from him for so long? Didn’t she know he would have taken them in? Protected them? He would have married her. Immediately.
They would have been a family.
The thought held more power than he could have imagined, packed with images of breakfasts and dinners and happy occasions filled with laughter and more. And Daniel wasn’t alone. He had brothers and sisters, all dark-haired with eyes the color of summer. Greens and blues. And they were happy.
Happiness was a strange, fleeting thing.
But in that moment, his mysterious, missing family had it.
The sound of the boys’ boxing returned his attention to the present. He would get his answers from Mara Lowe. But now was not the time. “You look very good, gentlemen.”
He and Mara stood side by side for long minutes, watching their charges, before she said, quietly, “No wonder you are undefeated.”
He lifted one shoulder. Let it fall. “This is what I do. It is who I am.” It was the only thing he’d done well for twelve years.
“I don’t think so, you know.”
He turned to her, easily meeting her gaze, enjoying the way she looked at him. The way she focused on him. Wishing they were alone. Wanting to say a dozen things. To ask them. Settling on: “You try it.”
She raised her fists, shadowboxed weakly in the air between them.
He shook his head. “No.” He tapped his chest. “Me.”
Her eyes went wide. “You want me to hit you?”
He nodded. “It’s the only way to know if you’re doing it correctly.”
It was her turn to shake her head. “No.” She lowered her fists. “No.”
“Why not?”
She lowered her eyes, and he wondered at the spray of freckles across her cheeks. How had he not noticed them before? He attempted humor. “Surely, you like the idea of doing a bit of damage to me.”
She was quiet for a long moment, and his hand itched to reach out and tilt her face to his. Instead, he settled on whispering, “Mrs. MacIntyre?”
She shook her head, but did not look to him when she said, “I don’t wish to hurt you.”
Of all the words she could have spoken, those were the most shocking. They were a lie. They had to be. After all, they were enemies—brought together for mutual benefit. Revenge in exchange for money. Of course she wanted to hurt him.
Why keep so much from him, then?
Her lie should have made him angry.
But somehow, it came on a wave of something akin to hope.
He didn’t like that, either. “Look at me.”
She did. And he saw truth there.