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?”
S he’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.
“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.