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“I sincerely doubt the sea air has teeth, Bronwyn,” her brother remarked drily.
Valentine didn’t remember anyone being about, but that didn’t mean someone might not have seen her returning to her stateroom with her hair tousled and marks of passion on her creamy skin. Deep masculine satisfaction rode him until he locked eyes with an incensed Ashvale, who looked like he wanted to pummel him into the wall.
The man fairly seethed with rage. “You and I will settle this properly when we get back to London. For now, I need you in good form, without any broken bones, because I have a plan to break quite a few in your body, starting with your legs.”
Valentine wanted to point out that it wasn’t his legs that had seduced the duke’s sister, but very wisely kept his mouth shut. Bronwyn, however, wasn’t of the same mind.
“No. I refuse.”
Ashvale’s icy countenance when he took in his aggravated sister was resigned. “I know this isn’t want you want, Bronwyn.” He sighed and walked to the door. “Do you think I wish to see my younger sister forced into a union? Don’t you think I want you to wed a man who will make you happy?”
Valentine ignored the taste of bitterness in his mouth and didn’t point out the irony that Ashvale had been wed to his duchess in much the same way—through a forced trip to the altar—though their…scandal had been viewed by actual witnesses and not based on assumptions and hearsay.
Though,heknew what he’d taken.
She’d been a virgin when they’d coupled. Guilt boiled through his veins like acid. The right thing to do was to marry her, but if Bronwyn was truly opposed to wedding him, he would never force her. Gossip would eventually peter out for something juicier. They would both survive that, at least.
Assassins and bullets were a different story.
But she was right that he didn’t have to marry her to protect her. He’d do it anyway.
“Bronwyn, you claim to want to help, to make a difference, and yet, how do you intend to do that as a disgraced woman?” Ashvale went on in a gentler tone. “You will be shunned from ballrooms and ousted from polite society, not because there is any truth in the scandal, but because there will be those who will delight in your misfortune. Think about it and let me know your answer. For now, I am tired, in need of a bath, and we need to get you back home.”
“What about the boy who shot at me?” she ground out. “We can’t just leave him here alone in Paris. What if he wakes and knows something?”
“Rawley has agreed to stay behind. Right now, we have the pressing matter of your identity to resolve, and you will be much safer in England, clearly.”
Ashvale left, but not before sending another seething look in Valentine’s direction that promised nothing but violence. When he eventually demanded his pound of flesh, that was going to be a spectacle of pugilism for the record books. Valentine didn’t blame him—if he had a sister, he’d have done the same. He cleared his throat and glanced over to where Bronwyn was wringing her hands with a distraught look on her face.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Get out. This is all your fault.”
He lifted a brow. “My fault?”
“Why couldn’t you have just gone back to England?” she said.
Valentine exhaled. “Because I can’t seem to let you go.”
The words dropped like lead ballast between them, and her eyes shone with the gleam of tears before she turned her face away. “God, is that all I am to you? A target? A stupid bird to be caught? The fantastic prize of the Kestrel to be caged and lauded as the greatest arrest in the history of time? You probably led those men here when you decided to pursue me, and then you locked me away in here like some damsel in a tower!”
Valentine deserved her wrath, but he’d been out of options and terrified half to death at how close he’d come to losing her. The gendarmes in Paris were looking for signs of the man or any accomplices, though without the shooter’s testimony, they didn’t have much to go on. The rifle in the young man’s possession had been of American issue, but he’d carried no identifying papers. Until he woke up, they had nothing.
Following her brother’s footsteps to the door, Valentine paused in the corridor and looked over his shoulder. “If you want me to apologize for keeping you safe, I won’t. Get some rest. We’ll talk in the morning.”
Face unreadable, she closed the distance between them, her throat working as though she had something to say. Her eyelashes fell, hand shaking as she gripped the edge of the door. With her crimson cheeks and trembling lips, she was so beautiful and fragile, he wanted to take her into his arms and comfort her. “Valentine?”
The whispered cadence of his name gripped his heart in a fist. “Yes?”
“You can go fuck yourself right into next week, the week after, and all the other weeks to come,” she said sweetly and then slammed the door in his face.
A half-amused, half-aroused Valentine revised his statement. She was certainly beautiful…but she was far from fragile. The sooner he reconciled that in his head, the better off he would be.
Nineteen
Valentine palmed his nape and sighed. The journey back to England via Calais had been uneventful, thank God. A rather quiet and docile Bronwyn had stewed in her quarters for the entire trip, which had surprised everyone, especially him. The clever little harpy was only biddable when she had some other maggot of an idea in her brain, and he wouldn’t put it past her to try something. He’d watched her like a hawk, but she had done nothing to warrant suspicion.
The presence of her aunt seemed to mollify her as well. It had been a surprise when the older lady had insisted on accompanying them, saying it was about time she made peace with her birth country…and her sister, she supposed.
