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.

“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.”