The next morning, Vivian stood in the center of the small clearing, waiting for James. Nixon had escorted her to the copse after breakfast. While she still found his brute size intimidating, she’d discovered that Nixon was quite nice. He’d told her a few stories of his past work with James as they walked into the forest, though she suspected the names of their associates had been changed to protect their identities. A rose by any other name would smell just as sweet, Shakespeare wrote. Maybe it didn’t matter what name James went by—as long as his feelings for her remained the same.

She ran a hand down the sea-green muslin of her simple day dress, one of her old gowns from when she’d been a governess. Northley had smacked her hand away when she’d reached for her fencing trousers, claiming that if she was going to fight, she ought to learn to do so in the clothes she’d normally wear. She supposed Northley had a point—though it was slightly disconcerting to have the maid speak about fighting so authoritatively.

Though her old dress still fit the same, it didn’t feel right on her anymore. In a little over a fortnight, her life had changed so much. She was constantly spinning, readjusting as another new bombshell hit her and disrupted her hard-won equilibrium. Her brother had been a spy. Sauveterre was an operative. James was one too, and his sisters. At this point, she’d started to wonder who in her acquaintance wasn’t a covert agent.

She took a deep breath, lowering herself down on an overturned log toward the end of the enclosure. Nixon’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t comment. She liked that about him. He’d told her earlier that they were going to be training in self-defense today.

Which would put her one step closer to being able to defeat Sauveterre.

She reached up, untying the knot that tied her bonnet under her chin. The most important thing was stopping Sauveterre from hurting other people. And making him rue the day he ever met her brother. That goal had not changed—perhaps it was the only thing that still remained the same.

Arden emerged first from the woods, James on her heels. Vivian’s heart soared at the sight of him. He held back, surveying the thicket, his Roman nose wrinkling as he thought. Scruff dotted his chin, giving him a rugged appearance. He wore no coat, his white cambric shirt straining against his broad shoulders as he strode forward, content there was no immediate threat of danger.

And though she could not explain it, though he’d dealt a vicious blow to her established order two days prior, she felt safer now that he was here.

He came toward her, brushing a kiss across her cheek. She leaned into him, but in a second he was gone, standing in the center of the grove with Arden and Nixon.

“First, we’ll demonstrate the moves, and then you can try them out,” he said. “I want you to feel confident that you’ll be able to defend yourself in any given situation.”

She nodded. “I understand.”

To start with, he led the group through a series of stretches to prepare them for the exercises. Once they were ready to begin, he gestured for Arden and Nixon to face each other, while he took a seat next to her on the bench. “The point of any self-defense technique is to give you a chance to escape. The agents you’re fighting with—or against—have years of experience. They can take care of themselves. I don’t want you to put yourself in unnecessary danger. Do you understand, Vivian?”

“Leave the gallantry to the professionals?” She did not tell him that she’d already started imagining making Sauveterre bleed.

His eyes narrowed, and she suspected he knew she’d lied. Her emotions were too transparent around him. If she did accept his offer, how would she ever be a proficient spy when she couldn’t lie effectively? It seemed impossible.

“First, we’re going to discuss soft targets. Do you know what those are?” Upon her negative response, he tapped his left eye with one finger, then his ear. “I want you to remember this: eyes, ears, mouth and nose. Throat, groin, fingers and toes. Say it back for me.”

“Eyes, ears, mouth and nose. Throat, groin, fingers and toes,” she repeated, cocking her head. “It sounds like a nursery rhyme I’d teach Lord Thomas.”

“Good, then you’ll remember it better,” James said. “Those are the areas of your body that no matter how strong you are, remain susceptible to attack. So if you’re in a confrontation, you want to go after the soft targets.”

Vivian surveyed her hands. “But how will I possibly have a chance against someone who is, say, twice my size?”

“No matter how strong you are, it still hurts like the dickens when someone hits those softer areas,” Arden replied. “Say Nixon comes at me from the front. I divert him with both thumbs jammed into his eye sockets.”

“What will that do?” she asked.

Nixon grimaced. “It’ll bloody hurt.”

“It’ll send a sharp jolt of pain through him, and gives her enough time to either combine that with another move—like a knee to the groin, or a strike with her elbow to his mouth—or leave the area entirely.” James reached forward, tapping her ear.

“I could also have slammed my palms upon his ears,” Arden added. “That would daze him, again giving me a better chance at escape.”

Vivian touched her eyes, then her ears, and onward. “So the main goal in any attack is to get away.”

The main goal in any attack against Sauveterre would be to strike him dead, but somehow she didn’t think James would agree with her.

“There are three most likely attacks: a sudden onslaught from the front, a throat grab, or an approach from behind,” Arden said. “Watch what I do when Nixon tries to attack me from the front.”

Nixon came at her, crowding her aggressively. Arden slapped him in the neck, stunning him. Nixon reeled back, landing on the ground. Arden extended a hand, pulling him back up.

Vivian’s jaw dropped. “How was that possible? You hit him once and he went down.”

“It’s about knowing where to hit.” Arden ran her finger down the back of Nixon’s neck. “There’s an artery here, you see? If I slap with the palm of my hand, it affects Nixon’s ability to breathe. When he falls, I have a chance to get away.”

She demonstrated it again with the same result. Nixon fell to the ground, and Arden ran.

James reached for her hand, helping her up from the bench. “Now it’s time for you to try. And don’t hold back—no matter what you do to me, I’ve had much worse. I will gladly take whatever pain you deliver it means you’ll be safe.”

One glance at his face told her he meant it, too. This man, this spy, had dropped everything to defend her. He was not the man she’d believed he was. Perhaps he was better. His words of protection were not empty promises. She knew undeniably as he rolled up his sleeves and stood back from her that he’d rather die than let her fall into the hands of a villain.

For all she knew, she’d be dead now if he hadn’t intervened.

She gulped.

Clenching her fists at her side, she took a step forward. James approached her, swinging his arms and getting into her space. She reached up, slapping him. When at first, she didn’t hit the right area he had her repeat the move. It took her several tries, but finally she slapped him with her palm out, and he went down.

“Oh!” She exclaimed, running to help him up. “That does work.”

He grinned at her, brushing the dirt off his breeches. “You did marvelously. You remind me of Arden when she first started training.”

She blushed. “Thank you.”

“Songbird’s the best we have,” Nixon chimed in, heading back to the middle of the makeshift ring for the next exercise.

Arden laughed. “Flattery will not gain you reprieve from arse-kicking.”

Nixon shrugged. “’Twas worth a try.”

“A noble effort,” Arden agreed. “Fruitless, but noble nonetheless.”

They taught her how to break a throat grab by wrapping an arm around her adversary’s neck and forcing him backward. The time passed quickly, as they practiced each move until she could complete it successfully. By early afternoon, she understood the basics of evasion. Slowly but surely, she became more at ease with the steps, gaining fluidity in her movements.

When it came to show her an attack from behind, Arden and Nixon reassembled in the center of the clearing. “Say I don’t notice that Nixon is behind me. Ideally, he’d stay still after grabbing me and I could stomp on his foot and then run. But most likely, your assailant will be focused on trying to grab you and move you to a different area.”

The icy hand of fear twisted her gut. If Sauveterre captured her, he’d try to transport her somewhere else, away from Arden and Nixon. Away from James. She’d known this would be hazardous, but to hear the likelihood expressed so flatly made her doubt her course of action.

And it was not just the peril, but the idea of being apart from the man who sat on the log beside her, his thigh pressed against her own. She’d thought originally that the nearness of him muddled her mind because around him, she could not help but want things she’d never imagined possible. A future filled with sensual encounters like their embrace in the carriage. An equal partnership where she could make her own choices but never be alone.

But now she wondered if that hope for a better day was the only thing separating her from being an animal like Sauveterre.

James leaned forward, whispering in her ear. “We’ll keep practicing this. You don’t need to be scared. You’re safe here with me.”

She believed him. So many things had changed, but that one fact remained. She’d always be safe around him.

She needed to know how to stop Sauveterre from taking her away from James. Though she might not understand his spying, she did know that she wanted to be with him.

She laid her hand on top of his. “Let’s do it.”

Nixon winced but assumed the position. He came at Arden, his arm across her throat. Holding onto his arm, she threw her head back, smacking into his jaw. When he was stunned, she stuck Nixon’s groin as hard as she could, then elbowed him. Once he faltered, she slammed her foot into his knee. Nixon fell to the ground, groaning.

Vivian yelped, as James winced in sympathy. “That didn’t look pleasant.”

“It wasn’t,” Nixon groaned. He lay on the grass for a moment longer, his face contorted in pain. “If they didn’t pay me so bloody well—”

“Well, we do,” James reminded him. “Besides old chap, you’ve kicked our arses plenty of times.”

Pushing himself up from the ground, Nixon’s snickered. “That’s true.”

“We call that move the Albatross,” Arden said.

“Why’s that?”

“Because once you’ve been hit there, it’s worse than a shackle around your neck,” James answered. “Worst impediment ever.”

Though pain still darkened his face, Nixon spared Vivian a slow wink. “Plus, it was more proper than calling it the Nutcracker.”

Arden rolled her eyes. “You’ll have to excuse these boys. After a few years, they simply shouldn’t be allowed to socialize.”

Vivian smiled. “You don’t need to watch your language around me. I don’t mind.”

“Korianna will be so pleased,” James remarked drolly. “Back to work, everyone.”

He had her demonstrate each counter-attack multiple times, until they were both sweating and exhausted. Around noon, they recessed for nuncheon. Northley had packed a picnic basket for the occasion with cold meats, cheese, and bread.

Arden exchanged a glance with James. Vivian couldn’t tell what silent communication had passed between them, but Arden took Nixon’s arm. “There are a few documents I’d like to go over with you back at the house.”

“But, nuncheon—” Nixon stared longingly at the picnic basket.

“This can’t wait,” Arden insisted, tugging on Nixon’s arm.

Giving one last languishing look at the basket, Nixon allowed himself to be led away from the grove. In a moment, they were gone.

Vivian took a seat on the log, pouring out the tea into two cups. She handed one to James. “What an interesting man.”

“That’s certainly one way to put it.” James dropped down next to her, sandwich in one hand and cup of tea in the other. “I’ve known Nixon for about ten years now. Never met a better whip.”

“I like him,” she decided. “He called Arden ‘Songbird.’”

“All spies have code-names to keep their identities safe. Nixon is a special case in that he knows both who we really are and our codes.”

She nibbled on her bread. “What’s your soubriquet?”

He sipped at his tea. Perhaps he debated whether or not he should tell her—or perhaps he let the silence drag on purposefully to create a dramatic pause. “Falcon.”

“Ah.” She suspected she was supposed to attach some great import to his disclosure, but the name itself meant little to her. The man behind the name, however, had managed to imprint his name upon her heart. “Thank you for telling me.”

“When I can, I will always answer your questions,” he said.

They finished their lunch in silence, but after a while, prickles began to creep up her neck, indicating she was being watched. She turned her head toward him, arching a brow. “You’re staring.”

“I’m doing no such thing,” he claimed slyly.

Holding her hands out, she frowned at the dirt speckling her pale skin. Her gaze traveled to the long grass stain on the side of her skirt, then down to her boots, coated in mud and torn-up sward. “I must look frightful. No wonder you’re gawking.”

“I think you’re beautiful.” He snatched a leaf from her hair, gifting it to her. “The foliage adds character.”

She peered down the bridge of her nose at him, as she did when Thomas misbehaved. “You’re mad, you know that?”

“You married me,” he jested.

She attempted to adopt a stern expression, yet she couldn’t stop the corners of her lips from turning up. “Under duress.”

“Come now, I wouldn’t classify a single assassin as duress,” he said. “Now if it were three assassins...”

She laughed. “Three assassins would change things, indeed. It is quite fortunate you have an army of spies at your disposal, my Spy Duke.”

His eyes darkened with desire. Her words must have done that. He liked being called Spy Duke, for whatever reason. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. Would he like to hear his code-name as much?

“So, Falcon,” she purred, darting out her tongue to lick at her lips. She remembered one of the servant girls back at Abermont House claiming that men liked that. Of course, said servant girl had stopped talking once she’d realized Vivian was listening, but not before she’d passed on a few very helpful seduction tips.

His gaze narrowed directly on her lips. She’d expected to affect him, not the other way around. But a vision of him above her, his muscles straining as he thrust deep within her secret place, overtook her and she could barely think straight. She gulped the rest of her tea, willing her pounding heart to return to normal. She’d always heard that a woman’s first time would be painful, but if their kisses in the postchaise had been any indication, James would know how to make it a marvelous night she wouldn’t forget.

For a charged second, their eyes met, and he smiled as if they shared a joke only they two could understand. Partners, she thought as he laid his hand on her left knee. Slowly, so slowly it was almost painful, he ran his fingers across her knee. Her breath sucked inward as he slid his hand further up, from her knee to the bottom of her upper thigh. Wherever he touched, he left a trail of fire.

She would burn from the inside out because of him, but she could not bring herself to care.

He let his fingers sink into the fabric, ruching it in his fist. The hem of her dress moved up enough to reveal the curve of her ankle, then as he glided higher with the fabric tight in his grip, her gown continued to move with him. There were her ivory silk stockings, stark white against his tanned hands. Virginal, when she felt so deliciously wanton.

Birds chirped. Insects buzzed. The wind rustled through the trees. All these things should have made her tell him to stop. They were too out in the open. Too exposed. But aside from Arden and Nixon, she didn’t know of a single soul who would encounter them in this glade. The remoteness of their setting lulled her into a sense of security—yet the outdoors made her feel untamed.

James caught her eye. He did not move his hand. She nodded, her breath hitching in anticipation as he inched his hand higher. While her dress remained in place on her right side, he’d pulled her gown high enough on the other side that he glimpsed her garters, held just above her knees with fine metal springs and buckles. Instead of plain, maidenly white, she wore soft pink ribbon, embroidered with roses.

The sight of those garters drew a groan from him. She’d have to thank Madame Celeste for insisting a new bride needed pretty garters. He feasted upon her with his eyes, as his fingers brushed against the satin, tracing the little flowers. He edged up her gown a bit more, taking in the bare expanse of her leg, right above her knee where the garters ended. She shuddered at his touch, shuddered because she made her feel beautiful and wanted, nothing like the bluestocking matron she’d always considered herself.

“You have the best legs,” he told her, his voice low and raw. “Bloody gorgeous legs. Go on for yards, these legs.”

“Your sister’s modiste hated them,” she murmured. “She said my silhouette is all wrong for today’s fashion. My legs are too long and my torso is too short.”

“Remind me to have words with that wretched shrew. No one will ever tell you again that you aren’t desirable.” He ran the flat of his palm across her bare leg, her skin goose-pebbling under his caress.

She couldn’t think of a coherent response. She’d moved past words on to sensations. Pleasure. Delight. Craving. But he didn’t seem to mind, for he’d dragged her closer to him, his arms wrapping around, one hand on her back and the other splayed across her neck. He lowered his mouth to hers, kissing her thoroughly.

Then he was gone, standing up. She reached for him, but he’d already made it to the picnic basket, pulling out the blanket Northley had packed and spreading it out on the ground. He came back again, and she accepted his hand, never wanting to let him leave again. He motioned for her to sit down on the blanket, and he dropped down beside her.

She lusted for the excitement he provided, the exhilaration of something new. In his strong arms she felt treasured, protected. The only threat was the building of pressure within her, begging to be sated. His kisses had left her ragged. She wanted more, even though she wasn’t entirely sure what more would mean. Still, she knew it was there, felt the sensations rising in her core, flooding her body with bliss.

He moved to sit behind her, his breath hot on her skin. His tongue danced across the sensitive flesh of her neck before dipping lower. His hands came up around her, encircling her breasts. He squeezed and kneaded until she gasped eagerly, a flood of warmth through her body.

Breaking from her momentarily, he undid the buttons of her dress, pulling the fabric down from her shoulders. He made short work of her stays too, only stopping for a moment to run his finger across the bow underneath her breasts.

“Someday, I’ll take proper time to appreciate these,” he murmured. “But all I can think about now is how the last time we were like this, we were interrupted. Not again.”

“A half hour, I promised,” she grinned slyly. “You’d best be quick. The clock starts now.”

He scooted around to the other side of her, helping her out of her dress. She sat before him in her chemise alone, yet she did not feel ashamed. Outside in this wilderness she could be equally uncontrolled. She had no time to care for the restrictions of society, for his mouth was on her again, her nipple poised between his two teeth. And oh God, those things he did with his tongue—she didn’t want to stop, ever.

“Do you trust me?” he asked, the intensity of his words breaking through the dullness of her passion-soaked mind.

“Always,” she murmured without thought, grabbing hold of his hand.

Gently, he pushed her down on the blanket, crawling between her thighs. He grabbed hold of the hem of her chemise, dragging them up to her waist, leaving her legs bared to him. “I do not think—”

He slid one finger inside her, in the very place where she felt so slick, so desperately in need of him. And he stroked and stroked as her hips bucked against him. She no longer cared about her unclothed state, about the danger surrounding them when they returned to Maidstone, about anything other than him and his thumb rocking against that little button of wonderful nerves. Squirming against him, she slid her hand down, holding him in that point. The most glorious sensations built up within her, taking her higher and higher, and she wanted to see this through—to see what she’d become at the other side.

She could not think—she could barely breathe—the pleasure was too much. She could not take it. She would explode at the seams, leaving only shattered bits in place.

He pulled from her, quickly opening the clasp to his breeches to give himself room. Experimentally, she reached out, touching her hand to the bulge. His breath hissed in, his eyes rolling back in an expression of half-pleasure, half-pain.

“I should like to explore you too,” she insisted.

“You don’t have to,” he panted, but the beseeching way in which he watched her hands perch on his shaft told her he’d like it very, very much if she did.

She undid the clasp of his breeches, sliding them down his hips. For a second she stared at him, her eyes as round as the gilded dinner plates at the manor. He was so large! She stretched her hand out, amazed by the hardness of his shaft. Tilting her head, she examined him from all angles, cupping his balls in her hands, and then touching the pad of her ring finger to the tip of his rod.

“Like this,” he urged her, readjusting her hands. He showed her how to handle him, not too rough, yet not gentle either.

As she pulled upon him, moving him up and down, she observed how his eyes closed, his head falling to one side. His mouth went slack, joy etched in every line on his face. She watched him as she pumped, pride surging through her at his reactions. His cock became granite in her hands, intriguingly hard and yet still supple.

This was James, disarmingly charming James, who sometimes was too autocratic for her tastes but still made sure her needs were met. And she was the one who made him moan, his breath coming out in jagged gasps, his eyes rolling back in his head.

Then, as she ministered to him, his hand slipped back down to her core. He knew just where to touch to get her higher. His thumb flicked against her most sensitive spot and she exploded, fireworks springing before her eyes. She bucked and arched and screamed, caring not who heard her as she rode out this wave to completion. A second later, he groaned, pulling from her and spilling his seed on the grass.

When it was over, he held her in his arms until her breathing slowed. Finally, when she could think again, she sat up. Her cheeks flamed as she pushed her chemise down.

James stretched out on the blanket, his arm crooked behind his head, the picture of indolence. She found it hard to match this well-sated, idle rogue with the driven spy who could flip a man twice his size with one cleverly executed movement. If she’d learned anything about her new husband, it was that he was devilishly hard to characterize.

He caught her eye, nodding. She decided this was her new favorite of his many expressive head tilts: one of approval, of utter contentment, of even masculine satisfaction. She glanced at the bodice of her chemise, free of stays, and suddenly she did not feel so embarrassed.

She felt...proud.

Vivian grasped her short stays between her thumb and forefinger. Hesitating for a second, she ran her finger over the fabric-covered wooden busk at the front. The busk forced her into good posture, reinforced by the laces in the back. In this short corset, she was supposed to be a proper lady. Refined. Polished.

She closed her eyes for a second and listened to the birds chirping in the trees. A few minutes ago, she’d been as wild and free as those birds.

Opening her eyes, she slipped the corset on over her chemise, turning around. “Would you mind assisting?”

James snapped to attention, bolting upright. With adroit fingers, he laced her back up. He handed her dress, helping her into it, sliding the straps of her dress back up onto her shoulders. His touch lingered a little too long. He laid a soft kiss against her neck, his mouth hot against her already heated skin. But it was a welcome warmth, chasing away the coldness of the last year.

She let her body go slack against his stalwart frame. He was a bulwark against the darkness, albeit temporarily.

She didn’t want to be alone anymore.

“That was...incredible,” she murmured, thinking that the English language didn’t have proper words to truly convey how magnificent that had felt.

“I shall include that in my report,” he quipped, as his fingers trailed down her arm.

She pulled back from him. “You wouldn’t.”

He grinned. “While I think that wouldn’t be the most salacious thing my superior has ever read, no, I most certainly wouldn’t. The idea of another man knowing how to summon those delectable moans from you makes me want to challenge him to pistols at dawn.”

She flushed. She’d never found violence attractive before. It had become necessary once Evan was murdered, but she did not relish the idea. Yet the prospect of James fighting a battle in her honor was strangely arousing. God, it had been so long since someone had supported her. Cared about her.

Loved her.

She saw a million futures before her eyes, and she dared hope that someday he might truly be enamored with her. For now, what they’d just done—the way he’d made her writhe with ecstasy—perhaps that was enough.

“As much as I’d like to stay here with you forever, it’s time to go.” James stood, extending a hand to her. “But don’t fret, love. That was only the beginning.”