Bourne could not tell his friend that taking his wife to bed had landed him in this predicament to begin with. “When you find yourself with a wife of your own, you can offer all the advice you like.”
“By that time I won’t have to. You’ll have driven yours away for good.” He dodged back. “I like the girl.”
Sadly, so did Michael. “You don’t even know her.”
“Don’t have to.” Bourne’s right hook would have knocked out a lesser man, but the blow had no effect on Temple. Unfortunately. He simply pressed on. “Anyone who sets you off the way she does deserves my admiration. She’s garnered my loyalty for her part in tonight’s entertainment alone. And I imagine that Cross will be half in love with her by the time he returns.”
The words were meant to incite, and they did. With a growl, Bourne charged at Temple, who blocked two quick punches before getting in a jab to the stomach. Bourne cursed, and leaned into the other man, his breath coming as fast as his perspiration for one second, two. Five. Finally, Temple pulled back, and before Bourne had a chance to move, the larger man jabbed once, twice, sending Bourne reeling into the ropes, blood pouring from his nose.
This time, he was not fast enough to catch himself. He landed on his knees.
“That’s the round,” Chase called, and Bourne swore wickedly as Temple came forward to help him up.
“Leave it,” he snapped, coming to his feet and making his way to the chair at one corner of the ring, marked by a green handkerchief. “Thirty-eight seconds,” he said, ripping the cloth from the post, holding it to his nose, and tilting his head back. “I suggest you prepare your next counterattack.”
Temple accepted a drink from Bruno, his second in command, and drank deep before leaning against the ropes, widespread arms—each sporting a wide-banded tattoo across the massive biceps—covering nearly half the length of the ring. Temple might have been born into the aristocracy, but this was his kingdom now. “What did she say that has you so eager to take a beating?”
Bourne ignored the question, the explosion of pain in his cheek not doing its job, failing to take away all thought of what had happened earlier with his wife. Of how her blue eyes had flashed as she’d accused him of using her body to secure his interests. Of how she’d squared her shoulders and defended her own honor—something he should have done for her.
Of how she’d looked at him, truth and tears in her eyes, and told him that she’d missed him.
The words had taken his breath away—the idea that pure, perfect Penelope had thought of him, had worried about him.
Because he had missed her, too.
It had taken him years to forget—years that were erased in one moment of honesty, when she’d looked into his eyes and accused him of leaving her.
Of dishonoring her.
And there, in the pit of his stomach, still unmasked by the pain of Temple’s beating, was the emotion he’d feared since the beginning of this charade.
Guilt.
She’d been right. He’d misused her. He’d treated her as less than she deserved. And she’d defended herself with strength and pride. Remarkably.
And even as he’d tried to let her go, to push her from him, he’d known that he wanted her. He didn’t fool himself into thinking that the desire was new. He’d wanted her in Surrey, when she’d stood in the darkness with nothing but a lantern to protect her. But now . . . want had become something more serious. More visceral. More dangerous. Now, he wanted her—his strong, intelligent, kindhearted wife, who became more tempting every day as she shifted and blossomed into someone new and different than the girl he’d met on that dark Surrey evening.
And now, he was married to her, virtually bound by laws of God and man to take her. To lay her down and worship her. To touch her in every wicked way he could imagine.
To claim her as his.
And she wanted nothing to do with him.
He fisted his left hand, enjoying the stinging ache beneath the linen strips—the feel of the fight he’d just had, the promise of the one yet to come—and lowered the handkerchief. His nose had stopped bleeding.
If she had not decided to push him away today, it would have come eventually—perhaps after it was too late, when he was unwilling to release her. “I need someone to watch her.”
Chase looked to him. “Why?”
“Alles asked her to flee with him when I drag him through the mud.”
The other men shared a look before Temple said, “And you wish to pay someone to make certain it does not happen?”
He wanted to believe it would not happen. That she would choose him.
That she would fight for him the way she fought for Tommy.
A long-buried memory came unbidden—young Penelope, hands outstretched at a garden party, playing blind man’s buff. Children were scattered everywhere, calling out to her, and she lurched and lunged, laughing at the silly game. He and Tommy had crept toward her and simultaneously whispered her name. She’d spun toward him, capturing him easily, her hands coming to settle on his cheeks, her smile wide and lovely. “Michael,” she’d said softly, “I’ve caught you.”
He ran his hands down his face and looked to his feet, covered in sawdust. “I think it’s best.”
Chase was the first to respond. “It might not be the best way to endear yourself to the lady, Bourne, having her followed.”
He came to his feet. “I am open to less villainous ideas.”
Temple smirked and said, “Why not leave the ring and go to her? Give her the words she’s looking for, take the girl to bed, and remind her why you’re better than Alles in all ways that count?” He bounced back into the ropes several times in a foul approximation of coitus. “A different fight, but far more pleasurable.”
Bourne scowled and came to his feet, shaking out his hands and testing his weight on tired legs.
“How long has it been since you’ve slept?” Chase asked.
“I sleep.” Not much.
He took a step toward the center of the ring, feeling the room sway just barely. Temple did not pull his punches. Ever. It was what made him such a stellar opponent on those days when one wanted nothing but oblivion.
“How long since you’ve slept more than an hour here and there?”
“I do not require a mother.”
Chase lifted a brow. “Perhaps a wife, then?”
Bourne wished Chase were in the damn ring, too.
The sound of Temple’s drawing a line in the wood shavings at the center of the ring echoed through the dark, cavernous room. “Come to scratch, old man. Let me give you the beating you richly deserve. We’ll send you home to your marchioness in desperate need of her care and concern.”
Bourne headed for the center of the ring, ignoring both the words and the unpleasantness that settled in his heart at the idea that his marchioness was no longer willing to provide him with either care or concern.
After another round of boxing, Bourne exited the ring, barely able to see out of his left eye. Temple remained in the box, stretching against the ropes, watching as Bourne accepted a side of raw beef from the icebox at Bruno’s feet and took the seat next to Chase, leaning back and placing the meat over his swelling eye.
Minutes went by—several of them—before Chase broke the silence. “Why did she leave without you?”