Guildford, Surrey

The journey from Maidstone to Guildford took approximately eight hours by postchaise. Two stops at inns along the way to eat, stretch their legs, and select fresh horses. In the past, he’d always completed this trip with little delay, unable to risk more than a ten-minute stop to change his steed.

In the past, he’d always been running from enemy agents, not taking his new wife for training. In the past, he’d never spent part of the ride pleasuring the most intriguing woman he’d ever known.

This trip, though it took all day and the better part of the evening, was infinitely better than the rest.

Blackness swathed the sky, the thick forest blocking out the moonlight. They’d stopped half a mile back from the hunting lodge, for the carriage could not easily travel through the densely wooded drive. Nixon unstrapped the matched pair from the carriage, running his hand down each horse’s body to make sure that there were no injuries. Satisfied with what he felt, he took the reins of both of the horses. While the postchaise would remain in the forest, James preferred to have the team kept closer to the lodge in case of emergency. He’d learned the hard way that a good agent always needed a plan of escape.

Nixon started forward, holding his torch high to guide their way. He knew the lay of the land almost as well as James did, for he was the Clocktower’s usual whip for the safe houses within driving distance of London.

James toted his own portmanteau, as security demanded the barest minimum of servants. Arden followed in his wake, leading her mare. Northley lagged behind, carrying the rest of Vivian’s things.

He slipped his hand into Vivian’s, not wanting to chance that he’d lose her in the packed thickets. He breathed easier when her small fingers dovetailed between his. Though the location of this safe house was heavily protected, there was always the chance that ruffians might take advantage of the sylvan setting.

She was safer where he could see her. Safer with him.

The party picked their way carefully through the woods, stepping over downed logs and steering around puddles. He’d expected some form of protest from Vivian, for the lodge wasn’t visible from the roadside, and for all she knew he was leading her into danger. But with her hand securely in his, she matched his stride. Her boot-clad feet picked nimbly over the roughest of the terrain, and even when the top of her cloak snagged on a tree branch, she freed the fabric and continued onward.

Her braveness impressed him. At every turn, she’d exceeded his expectations. And the hunger he’d felt in her kiss—he hadn’t been prepared.

She brought out something unrestrained in him.

They entered a clearing, where the moon shone bright without the cover of trees. He sneaked a glance at Vivian. Her pale skin silhouetted in the moonlight, the hood of her cloak pushed back and her golden locks glimmering, she reminded him of Selene, the goddess of the moon. For a second he stopped completely, enchanted by her beauty. The swell of her breasts, the camber of her hips, and the vibrant red of her bow-shaped lips all combined to leave his mouth dry with want.

This was not the time—not now, when they were exposed out in the open. Yet the impulse fired within him, quickening his breath. He, who had been so long ruled by logic and action, could not fathom the pull she had upon him. It was almost elemental, the way his body craved hers, the inexplicable draw of his mind to hers. How he felt at ease with her, able to be completely himself. He was not sure he even knew who he was anymore.

As they approached the lodge, his hand tightened around hers. Although the Clocktower owned the lodge, he felt a special kinship to this place. Built in the latter half of the sixteenth century, over the years the interior of the cottage had been updated, while maintaining the original front. It was a humble timber framed house, with a domed upstairs loft and a dormer window. The gable roof was made of red stone, with two stone chimneys.

Abermont House eclipsed it in luxury, yet the simplicity of this little safe house appealed to him. Here, he thought better. He breathed without the spectral presence of his father in every nook and cranny. He was Falcon.

Vivian’s eyes lit up. “Is this where we’re staying? It’s charming.” She dropped his arm to approach the house. Northley trailed after her, tutting.

His breath released in a loud whoosh of relief as he unlocked the house. She liked it. He hadn’t anticipated that her opinion would matter so much. Nevertheless, it soothed his anxieties, giving him confidence. Maybe, just maybe, if she appreciated the house—she’d appreciate what it meant to his profession.

Spies came to this out-of-the-way copse seeking respite from the darkest missions, often wounded and scared of detection. A rival agent had terrorized her under the auspice of “safe harbor,” but this place was a true haven for those with the Alien Office. Within these four walls, the best spies of England had recovered and recommitted themselves to the Crown.

If he had any chance of turning Vivian into a capable agent, it would be here.

If he had any chance of winning her heart, it would be here.

He shouldn’t want her love. Her respect, and her tolerance, yes. Admiration, unlike love, did not muddy the waters. Love made a man do foolish things, and a spy could not afford to be foolish.

But no matter how much he knew this, he could not change how he felt about her. Nor could he so readily dismiss his maddening craving to taste her again. She’d worked her way into his bloodstream, and now every thought he had was saturated with Vivian. Her laugh. Her smile. Her sweet rose scent.

While Nixon prepared the horses for the night, he followed Vivian into the house. Arden came after them. The caretaker had been there before they’d arrived, for the sconces were lit, giving the vestibule a homey glow. Off of the entrance hall was a drawing room, a library, a small study, two smaller bedrooms, and, further back, the main bedroom. A larder and a dining room were situated to the back of the house. Northley would stay upstairs in the loft, which was divided into two tiny rooms.

With a perfunctory nod, Northley took Vivian’s cap and set off toward the bedroom with her trunk. Arden bid them adieu for the night, claiming she wanted to retire early.

He set his portmanteau on the floor to handle later, and surveyed the room. Little had changed in the house since he’d last been here. Dust cloths no longer covered the dark wooden furniture; basic pieces constructed more for serviceability than aesthetics. Against the far corner of the wall rested a sturdy desk with knotty mahogany wood and a straight-backed chair with a threadbare purple cushion. A deep violet geometric tapestry adorned the wall. An overstuffed leather couch and two leather armchairs centered on the stone fireplace. Rust-colored rugs hid some of the scratches on the wooden floorboards, yet still James could feel the presence of the agents who’d been here before.

Elinor wanted to redecorate this safe house, claiming that it showed signs of serious wear. James refused. There was no glamour to the reality of what they did. The information they obtained often ruined lives. Men and women died in the interest of national security. It was bloody and it was necessary, but that did not make it easier.

He plopped down on the couch, hoping that Vivian would sit by him, but wanting her to have the option to refuse. He could not grant her a choice in adopting this new lifestyle—her life depended on the training she’d receive here—but he could at least give her this. She’d be as close to him as she wished.

She came to him. Her movements were far more graceful than his. Where he’d flung himself onto the couch, spreading out his legs wide and draping his arm over the side, she sat daintily, her hands folded in her lap. Waiting.

“I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve chosen this place.”

Great effort, you dolt. He should have prepared a speech. Something to ease him into this conversation. Because instead of knowing precisely what to say, he stumbled about, finding words that did not fit. He tugged his gloves off, cursing his own ineptitude.

She blinked. Once, twice, her eyelids fluttering shut and reopening in the space of a second—though the moment seemed much longer to him. Her chin lifted, her gaze drifting around the room, taking it all in. He ached to know her thoughts, when he ought to be able to read her without effort. His own whirlwind emotions kept him from a clear picture.

“I like it here,” she said finally. “I’m reminded of the cottage Evan and I shared in Devon, before he took the position with the bank. At first, being so far out in this forest concerned me, but...” She hesitated, her eyes coming to rest on his face, interest flickering in the crystal blue of her gaze. “Now I think it is exciting. An adventure.”

“It is, indeed.” Soon she’d know exactly how different her life would be from now on. “I’m sure we can muster up something more thrilling to do than your usual routine in the schoolroom. I know for a fact that there are two rapiers in the hall closet. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll finally know how skilled you are at fencing.”

Her eyes sparkled with delight as she laughed merrily. “You would not be able to handle me, Your Grace. What would the Beau Monde say if you came back from your wedding trip wearing an eye patch?”

He placed a hand to his heart as though she’d struck him. “You wound me with your disbelief, my dear.”

She started to reply, but then paused as if reconsidering. When she spoke again, her voice was much more subdued. “It wouldn’t be proper. I may know little about being a duchess, but I am rather certain your sisters wouldn’t approve of me fencing.”

He let out a loud snort. “I take it you have not spent much time around Korianna. Just last month she planted a facer on Lord Mawkesbury.” Korianna had been either on mission or in London for much of Vivian’s employment.

Vivian’s eyes widened. “You’re bamming me.”

“I absolutely am not.” For once, Korianna’s wild exploits actually had use outside of espionage. He’d thank her for helping him with Vivian, but then he’d never hear the end of it. “You’d think I would have known when I taught her the haymaker that she’d use it against the next blighter trying to steal a kiss.”

He did not have to fake his put-upon sigh. The horror at his peers knowing he’d been beaten by a girl had sealed Mawkesbury’s lips, but next time Korianna might not be so lucky.

“Serves him right then,” Vivian proclaimed with a grin.

“You didn’t have to spend a half-hour holding up a handkerchief to Mawkesbury’s bloody nose while he blubbered drunkenly,” James replied. “I assure you, fencing with you would be the highlight of my experiences with unconventional women. As long as you don’t deliberately try to topple me, we’ll be much better off than any match I’ve had with my sisters.”

She giggled, looking far too amused by the idea of him being hurled to the ground by his siblings. “I do so enjoy their company. I hope they’ll still like me, now that things have...” She pressed her lips together, searching for the right phrase. “Changed between us.”

“They like you fine,” he reassured her. “After all, Arden is here so you have some female companionship.”

A partial kernel of truth.

“I like Arden,” Vivian said. “She has been kind to me, letting me borrow Northley.”

He smiled. “Arden’s a true gem. Not a day goes by without me being glad my father adopted her.”

Vivian nodded. “It was good of the duke to take her in.”

He shifted in his seat so that he faced her. “People always make it sound like we did her an act of charity, when in truth, it’s Arden that’s brought us together. Without her, I’m certain we all would have killed each other by now.”

Vivian laughed. “I’m sure it’s not as dramatic as that.”

He shot her a disbelieving look. “You’ve met my sisters. Elinor alone is enough to make a man drink.”

“Lady Elinor is quite resolute,” Vivian said, taking obvious care with her words.

That brought of a bark of laughter from him. “That’s a nice way of saying it. Ellie means well, but the problem with being correct all the time is that people grow to resent you for it.”

She swept a hand down her traveling habit. “Well, I think Lady Elinor has impeccable taste.”

He tracked her movement keenly, soaking in every aspect of her frame. Instead of looking away bashfully, she met his gaze, a mischievous smile toying with her lips. In her eyes, he saw the same desire he felt.

“Tomorrow morning we could fence,” she suggested, and he found the breathy quality to her word entirely arousing.

“I don’t know about that. We might wish to sleep in after such a rigorous journey.” The huskiness of his voice made everything sound like an innuendo.

She caught his meaning, pink flushing her cheeks. “I suppose there’s that possibility. Afternoon, then.” Her lips parted, just begging to be kissed again.

God, he couldn’t resist any longer. He leaned forward. She kept still, her eyes drifting closed. As he narrowed the distance between them, his lips about to brush hers...

The door opened. Nixon and Northley entered. Although Northley had the good grace to look sheepish, Nixon arched a brow at him with a sly grin. Bloody, bloody spies—cocky bastards, the lot of them. If Nixon wasn’t the best damn driver he knew, he’d have the bounder reassigned to Russia.

By the time Northley collected his portmanteau and Nixon finished smirking, the moment had broken. Vivian eased back against the couch, the faint color to her cheeks reminding him of the opportunity missed. She yawned, raising her hand to her mouth to cover it too late.

“You must be exhausted.” He rose from the couch, extending his hand to help her up. Together, they walked down the hall to the bedroom that would be theirs for the next week.

He opened the door. This had always been his favorite room in the house, with its red brocade wallpaper and the two gray wingback chairs positioned by the fire. An eight-paneled fire screen depicting scenes from a foxhunt stretched across the hearth. But the object that drew his attention was the large four-poster bed, enclosed by crimson velvet hangings that both gave the room a gothic feel and kept out cold draughts.

The sheets were ivory satin, underneath a silver grosgrain counterpane. Their bags were already unpacked by Northley, and Vivian’s nightdress lay across the bed for her, in case she decided she didn’t need the maid’s help in undressing. James stared at the flimsy concoction, edged in white lace, his powers of resistance fading the longer he imagined Vivian wearing it. The longer he remembered the tantalizing pink bow at the center of her stays, hiding the most perfect pair of breasts he’d ever beheld.

Dropping his hand, Vivian took a seat on the black cushioned bench, unbuttoning the tiny fasteners on her walking boots. As she did so, her eyelids drooped, her shoulders slumping. Guilt plagued him. The last thing she needed was him acting like a stallion sensing a mare in heat.

“I’ll get Northley.”

She let out another yawn, louder this time, as he stepped out into the hall. Within a few minutes, he’d managed to locate the maid and send her back to their room. He remained in the parlor, going over the files he’d brought with him on different Clocktower cases, until enough time had passed that Vivian should be ready for bed.

When he reentered the room, she was curled up underneath the covers, sound asleep. After changing into his own nightclothes, he crawled into bed next to her.

He brushed a kiss across her cheek and turned over, blowing out the candle. He’d attempt sleep, though he had no real hope it would come to him.

Tomorrow he’d confess everything to her—and hope to God she understood.

* * *

When he awoke the next morning, his arm was slung about Vivian’s waist, his right leg swung over the top of hers. The faint scent of roses drifted from her blonde locks splayed out across her pillow. How did she smell so good after a day’s worth of traveling? He doubted he smelled as fresh, after helping Nixon to fix the carriage wheel.

Her scent was doing wicked things to him. Making him far too aware of the lushness of her curves, the way her body fit against his like the perfect key to his locked up heart. He swallowed, trying to will his erection down. Yet he couldn’t help himself—snuggled up to her, he felt he was right where he should have been all along.

He hugged her tighter to him. She dozed peacefully, her breathing steady. A primal part of him recognized that as an achievement. His woman slept soundly by his side, confident that he could protect her from harm. She’d felt safe in his embrace. Comfortable.

Would she still feel so content when he told her the truth?

He grimaced, that reminder dimming his sultry thoughts. He’d always considered it a point of pride that he’d never had to reveal his real identity to an asset. There were missions that required such exchanges of information, but his cover had always been deemed too valuable to expose. But such competence in his profession meant he had no point of reference for a conversation like this. Every opening line he thought of sounded trite to his ears.

Gently, he extricated himself from the bed, careful not to disturb her. His arousal would decrease, as long as he kept away from her. By the time she awoke, he’d be able to look her in the eye without his mind being a lust-addled jumble.

The main bedroom had no windows, which made it easier to guard but much harder to ascertain the time of day without the rays of sunlight. He lit the candle by the bed, looping his thumb in the handle of the brass chamber candlestick and carrying it over to the dresser. He did a double take as he caught sight of the clock face.

Six in the morning.

He’d slept until dawn. Christ, he hadn’t done that since Louisa’s death. Setting the candlestick down on top of the dresser, he tunneled his fingers through his hair, trying to remember if he’d stirred at all during the night. He couldn’t recall dreaming. Only the soothing blackness of night, the reassuring hum of Vivian’s breathing.

He spun around, facing the bed again. Lost in slumber, she looked almost angelic, her golden hair a halo. Yet he knew her to be more salacious than her appearance dictated, and he found himself loving the real version of her far more than the visage. Her hand curled around the counterpane, the sapphire ring on her finger flashing in the candlelight. He didn’t need a ring to mark the claim she had on him. She’d done what no other woman before her had managed. She’d broken through his carefully constructed walls.

And that scared the devil out of him.

He allowed himself one last look before turning back around. Sliding the dresser drawer slowly to minimize the noise, he pulled out his clothes for the day. He dressed behind the privacy screen, not wanting to shock her in case she awoke. Without a valet, his toilette was much simpler by necessity.

He pressed his fingers to his lips and blew a kiss to Vivian’s sleeping form, then crept from the room.