“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.
If she didn’t wish to hurt him, what were they doing? What game did they play?
He stepped toward her, grasped her fist, and pulled it toward him until it settled, featherlight, at his chest, just left of center. She tried to pull it back, but he wouldn’t let her, and instead, she ended the false blow the only way she could, stepping closer, opening her palm, and spreading it wide and flat over his chest.
She shook her head. “No,” she repeated.
The touch was scandalous in that room, in full view of all those boys, but he didn’t care. Didn’t think of anything but the warmth of her hand. The softness of her touch. The honesty in it.
When was the last time a woman had touched him with such honesty?
She was destroying him.
He nearly pulled her into his arms and kissed her until she told him everything. The truth about that night twelve years ago and what it led to and how they’d come to be here. Now. About where they were. And where they were headed.
He lowered his head, she was inches away. Less.
She cleared her throat. “Your Grace, I’m sure you will not mind if I send the boys to tidy themselves. It is nearly time for luncheon.”
He released her like she was aflame. Dear God. He’d nearly— In front of two dozen children. “Not at all, we are finished for the day, I think.”
She turned to the boys. “I expect you all to remember the duke’s lesson. Gentlemen do not start fights.”
“We only finish them!” George announced, and the boys were off instantly, dispersed in their separate ways, except little Henry, who headed straight for Lavender, at Temple’s feet.
Grateful for the distraction, Temple scooped up the pig. “I’m afraid not. Lavender remains with me.”
Henry pursed his lips at that. “We’re not allowed to lay claim to her,” he pointed out. “Mrs. MacIntyre does not like it.”
Temple met Mara’s gaze over Henry’s little blond head. “Well, Mrs. MacIntyre is welcome to scold me, then.”
Henry seemed fine with that plan, and hurried off in the direction of luncheon. Temple straightened, and faced Mara, who looked as flustered as he felt.
“He’s right, you know. The rule is, no using Lavender as booty.”
“Whose rule?”
“Mine,” Mara said, reaching for the piglet.
Temple stepped backward, out of reach. “Well, by my rules, I rescued her. And she is therefore mine.”
“Ah. The rules of scoundrels.”
“You seem to have no trouble playing by them when you see fit,” he pointed out.