James had thought he knew what fear was. The chill down his spine at a coming attack, or the dull ache of ominous precognition he could not shake. He had dared believe he was omnipotent when it came to fear, for in his twenty-eight years alive he had poured blood, sweat and agony into his country and gotten little in return.

He had been wrong.

He had never truly understood fear until this instant. Real fear was the pierce through his throat, as if Sauveterre held him too at knifepoint. It was the slow slide of crimson down Vivian’s pale skin. The certainty that she would die at the hands of a madman because he had not saved her.

This was why spies did not fall in love.

Everything in his life turned to rot, and now she would pay for his sins with her life.

For a full minute, he could do nothing but stare at Vivian’s face. He did not even register the spy behind her. The deadly silver glint of the blade at her throat stole his wits. He could not be the agent she needed. He could not breathe.

Arden recovered first. “This has nothing to do with her. If you want a hostage, take me. I guarantee you I will bring you more glory with Bonaparte than she ever would.”

He heard Arden’s voice on his left, but he dare not take his eyes from Vivian to verify her position. As if somehow, by the power of his thoughts alone, he could keep Sauveterre from cutting her.

Tenuously, he reconstructed his grip on reality. Arden’s speech had centered him. Reminded him that he was not alone. He had two of the best agents in England on his side. His mind began to race, sifting through every possible combat maneuver he knew to free Vivian.

“I don’t doubt that you’d be quite valuable, Songbird,” Sauveterre said with a baleful smile, the knife still poised at Vivian’s throat. “But I’ll have you too soon. All in due time.”

“How?” Nixon’s gruff voice broke in. The jarvey was close enough on James’s right that out of the corner of his eye, he saw Nixon gesture to the bloodshed behind them. “Three of your men are dead. The last three will die soon. You have no one.”

Sauveterre surveyed the copse scattered with dead bodies, as if seeing it for the first time. A spark of trepidation singed his dark gaze before it was promptly smothered. “I’ll admit the circumstances are not ideal. I expected more from my fellow Talons. But life is a revolving set of disappointments, isn’t it? The plan goes on. It evolves.”

Recognition coursed through him in an unforeseen onslaught. Several years ago, he’d encountered another French assassin who spoke reverently of “plans.” That man had been thinner; his hair was longer.

But his voice was the same. Throaty and nasal.

He was almost certain it was the same man. If he was right, then there was hope for Vivian.

“Bouchard,” he called conversationally, walking forward as though they were old friends. He did not need to look behind him to know that Arden and Nixon would back his play. Now, their expressions would be blank, revealing nothing to the enemy. Their bodies were poised to attack at a second’s notice.

Like him, they constantly looked for the angle that would allow them to capture Sauveterre without harm to Vivian.

Sauveterre tensed, pricking the tip of the knife against Vivian’s throat again. “Stay where you are.”

A fresh spot of blood appeared underneath the point of the blade, sopping down. Vivian’s body slackened. Her skin had become precariously white. He did not know how much longer she could stand on her own two feet.

Stay with me, love.

“Bouchard,” he repeated, more insistently this time. Sauveterre’s tautness reassured him he was correct in his identification. “I know it’s you. Do not pretend you were not in Calais that March night four years ago.”

While he addressed the man who had called himself Sauveterre, his eyes never left Vivian’s face, silently willing her to believe the end had not yet arrived. He’d promised to protect her always, and he’d keep that promise with his last dying breath.

Sauveterre said nothing. But his left eye twitched and his nostrils flared, signs of indignation he could not contain under James’s watchful gaze.

James had two options: either he could goad Sauveterre further in hopes that the man would become flustered and exhibit a weakness he could utilize, or he could back off and try to find another way to save Vivian.

God, what if he made the wrong choice? He risked her life on the chance that he was as good at reading people as he thought. He wished with all his will that he could turn back time, keeping her from this position.

She was so very still in Sauveterre’s arms. Shoulders tight, knuckles white at her side. Her only movement was her rapidly blinking eyes as she stared straight ahead, her eyes appearing damp and excessively bright.

He could practically feel her terror, emanating off her in waves that threatened to drown him too. Though Sauveterre had ceased pressing the tip of the blade into her throat, the knife remained a threat. The wound on her forehead concerned him. She needed medical attention, not a continued stalemate.

None of them were close enough to rush Sauveterre—the bastard would slit Vivian’s throat before they made it to the porch.

James sent up a silent prayer that the Lion was watching over them, guiding his actions to a fortuitous end. He lifted his gaze to Sauveterre, arching a brow at the Frenchman.

“You must remember,” he urged, keeping his tone level while his mind plotted seventy different ways to kill the blackguard. “It was not the best time for you, was it? If I recall correctly, you’d just finished telling me all about where the Talon’s latest cadre of weapons was located. Isn’t that right, Bouchard?”

Sauveterre sucked his cheeks in, his brows lowering. “Don’t call me Bouchard. That is not my name.” The spy’s grip appeared to slacken on the knife for a moment.

James’s eyes widened in faux innocence. “My apologies. Is that not what they call you now? I distinctly remember LeGrand deeming you ‘Big Mouth.’”

“Because of you,” Sauveterre spat. “Because of you they refused to call me by my true alias.”

Behind him, he heard a guffaw. Nixon, he was sure. Arden was too dignified.

Sauveterre flinched. The tiniest movement, barely perceptible, but enough that his hand went limp again for a second. Vivian sucked in a hasty breath, her eyes shining with gratitude. She still could not risk speaking—not when the blade came back against her throat, tight again.

If he could get Sauveterre to loosen more…

“Your own people don’t respect you,” James said. “You’re going to be the cautionary tale they tell new spies. ‘Don’t be like Big Mouth. He died in a draw match because he was too foolish to realize he was outmanned.’”

Sauveterre’s craggy face reddened. “There may be three of you, but I’d say my odds are good. After all, I have your little whore here.” With his right hand, he burrowed his fingers into the hollow above Vivian’s hip.

She whimpered, her cry splintering her heart in two. There would not be pieces large enough to bury when he was done with Sauveterre.

“You see, I don’t need a knife to inflict pain upon your lady love,” Sauveterre said. “But I have waited a long, long time for this moment with you, Falcon. I will not wait longer. You took something from me—my friend, Nicodème. So I will take something from you.”

Vivian’s eyes bulged, her pupils becoming smaller, making her appear half-mad. The terror, combined with her blood loss, was becoming too much. At any minute, she might faint, risking the nick of the knife as she collapsed.

James let the full force of his wrath glide onto his features, his voice ice-cold. Sharp as the blade Sauveterre held. “You kill her and you sign your death warrant. Do you think there is a country you can flee to where I will not find you? I will hunt you to the ends of the Earth.”

“I suggest you let her go,” Arden commanded, her voice steely. “Or I will make damn certain you regret it.”

“And I’ll help,” Nixon added.

“She isn’t part of this.” James took a step forward, emboldened by the cagy way Sauveterre’s gaze flicked between him, Arden, and Nixon. “You want to fight with me, then fight with me. Not her. Or are you so little of a man that you must hide behind a woman?”

Arden—and Vivian, if he was lucky—would slap him later for that comment, but it had the desired effect on Sauveterre. He hesitated. His gaze drifted downward, head bowed. His fingers slid on the knife.

Vivian must have felt the blade relax, for the fear splashed upon her face tapered in accordance. Her lip no longer trembled. When Sauveterre looked toward Arden, James met Vivian’s gaze, her blue eyes clear.

“I love you,” he mouthed.

Her lips curled in a tiny smile, a bit of color coming back to her ashen cheeks.

“Little man, big mouth,” James called, mocking Sauveterre. “Let’s see if you can fight me without that albatross around your neck.”

He looked directly at Vivian, praying she’d understand his hint.

She grabbed onto Sauveterre’s knife arm to keep the blade steady as she flung her head back, her skull slamming into his chin with a sickening crack. Sauveterre fell back, the knife sliding ineffectively off her throat. She punched back, connecting with his groin, hitting him again and again, until finally he wilted, his knees giving out. Taking off at a gallop, she jumped off the porch and did not stop running until she was in James’s arms again.

She’d saved herself when he could not save her.

He held her close to him as Arden and Nixon went for Sauveterre, crossing his hands and feet and then binding them. The bastard let out a pitiful groan, but James spared him no mind. This time, he would gladly leave his agents to dealing with the enemy—the most important person in their mission was already with him, snuggled up against his coat.

He pulled her closer to him, hunching over her to hide her eyes from the butchery around them. But instead, she lifted her head up from his coat, refusing to be shielded.

“You don’t have to protect me anymore,” she murmured. “You made sure I could protect myself.”

“I will always—” He’d been about to tell her he’d always protect her. But he’d just watched her fight through hell and come out on the other side. He looked down at her, a proud smile on his lips. “I solemnly swear to never underestimate you again, my brave survivor.”

“Your brave spy,” she corrected.

He released her, his mouth agape. But before he could question her, she rose up on her tiptoes, kissing him. She drew him closer to her, anchoring her hand on his neck. He let her steer the kiss for a minute. Then he took over, claiming possession of her, plundering her mouth. He kissed her until every bit of her body was imprinted again upon his mind, until he slowly said goodbye to the guilt that had consumed him in this last year.

When they finally broke apart, it was because they could no longer spare their breath. Still she stayed in his arms, her head nestled against his chest. He knew that for the rest of his life, he’d want her by his side. She was a fierce minx. A damnably aggressive, impossible woman.

She was all his. Forever.

* * *

Approximately an hour later, Vivian sat on the settee in the main room of the cottage, a lukewarm cup of tea cradled between her hands. James had poured it for her, insisting that it would help her get her strength back, but she couldn’t summon up the energy to lift the cup. She leaned her head back against the settee, shuddering.

Arden watched her from her perch across the room. She’d come to sit with Vivian after helping Northley into bed. The maid would mend from Sauveterre’s blows, but she needed rest and relaxation to speed along the healing process.

“It will take some time to recover,” Arden said, her quiet words a balm to Vivian’s tired soul. Everything today had been too loud, too rough. “The first time you’re taken hostage is always difficult.”

“The first?” Vivian turned her head toward Arden, her brows arched. “How many times exactly have you been taken hostage?”

“Seven,” Arden said, said after a moment of reflection. “But five of those times, it was a tactical move on my part to catch the enemy off-guard. The other two…well, I prefer to think of them as mistakes to learn from.”

“I see,” Vivian said, her head beginning to spin again. “I have much to learn about spycraft.”

Arden smiled. “You have the best teacher in James.”

Vivian looked toward the end of the hall, where James and Nixon had moved Sauveterre for a preliminary interrogation. She hadn’t heard anything from that side of the house since they’d closed the door. Either the walls were thicker than she’d assumed, or they’d found a way to make the bastard talk without needing to inflict pain. Since all of his men were now dead, she suspected it was the latter—above all else, Sauveterre seemed to value his own life.

The door to the back room opened and James emerged. He started down the hall, his strides quick. Dirt and blood streaked his breeches. Stained his skin. His white shirt was ripped, and a pool of crimson stained his chest from where a knife must have nicked him. He came to a stop at the edge of the parlor, rubbing his hand against the back of his neck. His knuckles were raw and bloodied.

But he was alive.

And he loved her.

He crossed the room, coming to sit next to her. His baritone was the most welcome sound in the world. “We’ve finished with Sauveterre, at least for now.”

“Good,” Arden said.

“Did he tell you much?” Vivian asked.

“A few things.” James did not expand on that thought further, and she did not ask. He would share what he could. “Arden, do you think you might give us a moment?”

Arden nodded. “I should go check on Northley anyhow.” She stood, laying a hand on Vivian’s shoulder as she passed by the settee.

Once she was gone, James turned to face her. “We have just barely started with Sauveterre. I believe that back in headquarters with our best people, we could obtain much more information from him.”

“You mean you could torture it out of him,” she supplied.

He blenched. “I was hoping for a more delicate phrasing, but yes.”

“I no longer harbor any illusions about your work.” Her smile was bittersweet. “It’s bloody and distressing, but it keeps men like Sauveterre from harming innocent people.”

“About what you said outside,” James said. “Did you mean it? You want to be a spy?”

“Yes,” she answered without hesitation. “I want to be a part of the Clocktower. I need to be a part of it.”

“I was not expecting that response.” He took her hand in his, the warmth of his palm steadying her rapid heart. Everything made more sense when he was around. “Though I am glad.”

“But I want to do it on my terms,” she said. “You told me you’d assign my missions. After today, I know that there are some lines I’m not willing to cross.”

James clasped her hand tighter. “I wanted to speak to you about that. With what he knows, we might be able to shut down the Talons permanently.”

“That would be wonderful.”

“It would be a huge blow to Bonaparte’s government. Without his team of assassins, we stand a much better chance of unseating him.” James pursed his lips. “But...”

She tilted her head toward him. “But what?”

James sighed, taking in a deep breath. Whatever he was about to say weighed heavily on him. “But with everything you went through to find this bastard, I can’t take away your chance at revenge. Not after he hurt you like this.”

“You’re offering me the chance to kill Sauveterre?” She blinked, unsure she’d heard him right. “After everything you said before?”

“Perhaps I was wrong,” James hedged. “Perhaps I had no right to tell you what you needed to grieve.”

It was her turn to squeeze his hand now. “Or perhaps you were correct all along.”

His jaw dropped.

“All this time, I have thought only of vengeance for Evan,” she said. “As if that was the only way to ever make things right after his death. But I see now that I should have been looking for a way to honor the life he led.”

Understanding crossed James’s scratched face. “You did what you thought was needed.”

“Perhaps it was Sauveterre’s blasé justification of Evan’s death.” Her gaze drifted toward the back room. “He didn’t care who he had to kill to achieve his goal. Evan. Me. Even Northley. I don’t ever want to view human life as collateral damage.”

“You could never be the horror that Sauveterre is,” James assured her, his faith in her supporting her.

“Maybe not,” she mused. “But I don’t want to take that chance. When I looked into Sauveterre’s eyes, I saw nothing but coldness. No feeling. If I take his life, then maybe that coldness settles in me too. I choose not to take that chance.”

A wave of relief spread across James’s face. His posture relaxed. Were it not for the dried blood clotting on his face, he would have looked truly happy.

In that moment, she knew she’d made the right decision. “If you can shut down the Talons, then Evan’s death wasn’t for naught.”

The best way Vivian could think to carry on his legacy was to continue his work.

But she also never wanted to be a victim again. For too long, she’d put control of her life in the hands of other people. Going forward, she would control her destiny. James’s instruction here had given her the preliminary resources, but it was not enough. The more she learned, the more she realized that this was where she was supposed to be: protecting people who couldn’t help themselves. Who didn’t even know that a threat was coming—and if they succeeded in keeping the nation safe, they never needed to know.

“Then I will tell Nixon to ready Sauveterre for transport. We’re going back home.” He released her hand, pushing himself up from the settee.

“One moment.” She held up her hand, and he plopped back down. “Sauveterre isn’t going anywhere. Could we just…sit here for a minute? You and me.”

“Absolutely.” He pulled her toward him, and she laid her head down on his shoulder.

They’d weathered the storm. They’d faced an assassin. The terrors of their past. And they’d come out stronger, better versions of themselves.

Together.