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.

She smiled. “I am quite aboveboard where Lavender is concerned.”

He stepped closer then, and his voice lowered. “You are the worst kind of scoundrel, then.”

She raised a brow. “How so?”

“You assume the mantle only when you require it. You lack conviction.”

He was very close now, looming over her. “Are you attempting to intimidate me into agreeing with you?”

“Is it working?”

She swallowed, and he resisted the urge to stroke the column of her neck. “No.”

“Men cower at the mere mention of my name, you know.”

She laughed. “The look of you now, cradling a piglet, might ease their fear.”

He looked down at the sleeping Lavender and couldn’t hold in his soft chuckle. Mara stilled at the sound, then cleared her throat. Temple found her gaze. She was aware of him. As aware of him as he was of her.

“Did you mean what you said about vengeance not being worth the trouble?”

He raised a brow. “I did not say that.”

“You said it rarely proceeded as expected.”

“Which is true,” he said, “but that does not mean that it does not end as such.” He had to believe it.

She looked straight ahead, her gaze settling at the indentation in his chin. “Where does this revenge end?”

I don’t know.

He would not admit that. Instead, he said, “It ends with me a duke once more. With what I was promised as a child. With the life I was bred for. With a wife.” He ignored the thought of strange eyes. “A child.” And dark hair. “A legacy.”

She did look at him then. “And for me?”

He thought for a long moment. Imagined them different. He a different man, she a different woman. Imagined they’d met under different circumstances. There was much to recommend her—she was brave and strong and deeply loyal to her boys. To this life she had built.

She was not his concern.

He wished that was not becoming so difficult to believe.

His free hand came to her face, tilted it up to meet him. Told her the truth. “I don’t know. I shouldn’t have come here today.”

“Why did you?”

“Because I wanted to see you in your element. I wanted to meet your boys.”

“To what end?”

He did not have an answer to that. He shouldn’t want to know her better. To understand her. But he couldn’t help himself. Perhaps because they were forever linked. Perhaps because she’d made him, in a way. Perhaps because he wished to understand her.

But he hadn’t expected to begin to like her.

And he definitely hadn’t expected to want her so much.

Knowing he couldn’t say any of that to her, he chose another path—distraction—and he closed the distance between them and kissed her.

She leaned into the kiss, her lips a barely there promise, light and sweet enough for her to wonder if it could be called a kiss at all. It was more of a tease. A temptation that rolled in, surprising him with its power. With the way he wanted it. The way she wanted it. She sighed against him, and it was precisely that for which he was waiting.

She offered him entry; he took it.

The moment her lips parted, he captured them, deepening the caress, his hand sliding from her cheek to her neck and finally down her back to wrap around her waist and pull her close. Her sigh became his satisfaction, a deep, primitive growl that surprised him. She tested his control again and again.

And he enjoyed it.

Then his tongue was stroking across her lower lip and her hands were in his hair and she pressed against him, as though there were nothing in the world she wanted more than to be close to him. As though she weren’t afraid of him.

He gathered her closer, wanting to bask in her fearlessness, wanting to block out everything that had been and would be and live only in this moment. With this woman who seemed to want the same.

That’s when Lavender protested.

The piglet offered an outraged squeal and began to squirm quite desperately in her place between them, wishing to be either released or restored to her prior state of naptime abandon.

Mara and Temple tore apart from each other, her hand at her throat, his keeping Lavender from leaping to her death. He set the piglet down, and she scurried off, leaving them alone in the foyer, out of breath, staring at each other as though they did not know whether to run from the house or back into each others’ arms.

He wasn’t leaving that house.

Instead, he came at her once more, beside her in two long strides, lifting her in his arms—loving the weight of her there, the way his muscles bunched and tightened. The way they served a new, infinitely more valuable purpose. He took her mouth again, hard and fast, and tasted a frustration there—one he recognized because it mirrored his own.

Christ. He couldn’t stay.

He released her as quickly as he’d captured her, leaving her unsteady on her feet, capturing her face in his hand, staring deep into her eyes and saying, “You are trouble,” before punctuating the statement with a firm, final kiss and stepping away from her.

Her hand flew to her lips, and he watched the movement with desperation, loving the way those pretty fingers pressed against swollen flesh. Wishing they were anyone but them. Anywhere but here.

If wishes were horses.

He turned to leave. Knowing he had to. Not trusting himself to stay.

She called after him. “Will you join us for luncheon?”

“No, thank you,” he said, at sea. “My morning is complete.” Too complete. He should not have touched her. She was his ruin. His revenge.

Why couldn’t he remember that?

“You look hungry.”

He nearly laughed. He’d never been so hungry in his life. “I am fine.”

“Are you still afraid I might poison you?”

He inclined his head, the excuse welcome. “A man cannot be too careful.”