After getting up, he began ambling toward the ring. “Coming?”
“With your wound, I’m not certain this is a good idea.”
“Scared?”
She bristled. “Absolutely not. I’m simply striving to spare you another encounter with the needle.”
“Don’t worry about me, Princess. How’s your breast?”
His frankness regarding the human body coming at last heated her to her core. Few people actually spokethatword aloud. It was relegated to erotic novels. She wondered if he whispered it in his lovers’ ears. “You tell me.”
“From what I observed, quite perfect.”
Warmth suffused her at the compliment. She’d never been vain, but she couldn’t help but be flattered by his observation. He slipped between the ropes and into the ring. Shaking out those long sinewy arms, he arched a brow and waited.
Drat him! He’d given her no choice because she refused tonotaccept the challenge and be judged a coward. She marched forward. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Marcus couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so alive, anticipating an encounter, a moment, a woman’s nearness. Given the manner in which his body was tightening, she might as well be approaching completely naked. It was absolute madness—the relief that came over him when she didn’t immediately toss him out on his arse but had accepted his apology. More than that, she’d deciphered the reason for his upset the night before, which meant she’d been thinking about him at least some. Probably not as much as he thought about her, but then he seemed to be a man of obsessions, whether it was his father, his need to find the others responsible, or her. How was it, when was it, that she had become an obsession?
“We’re wrestling, I take it,” she said, having joined him, standing only a couple of feet away. “Not boxing.”
“You’re welcome to hit, use whatever means at your disposal to overpower me.”
She smiled, somewhat evilly, actually. “You don’t strike me as someone who would punch a woman.”
“So you’ll have a slight advantage.”
She rolled her shoulders and neck before bending forward slightly in a pose anticipating an attack. She bounced on those tiny bare toes of hers, toes he wondered if anyone had ever kissed. He’d like to run his tongue along the arch of her foot. He shook his head. He was on the verge of battle, not lovemaking. Based on the outcome that night in the alleyway, he knew she’d be a formidable foe. He welcomed the challenge of her.
Then she was running toward him. As he prepared to fend off the blow by capturing her in his arms, she suddenly leapt in the air and those feet he’d been contemplating were digging into his gut, doubling him over, sending him staggering back. By the time he’d regained his balance, she’d retreated, bouncing on the balls of her feet, her hair swinging back and forth. Her triumphant smile made him want to kiss her, damn it. “Impressive, but you’ll not catch me unawares again. You should have taken advantage of the moment and brought me down.”
“Brewster never complained when I took pity on him.”
“I’m not Brewster, and I don’t require pity. You’re going to regret not finishing me off when you had the chance.”
“You’re going to regret underestimating me.”
Crouching slightly, he began circling her. Thering was smaller than what he was accustomed to using at his gentlemen’s clubs. It forced proximity, close fighting, which he decided was by design. In an alleyway, a mews, or a street, he had an opportunity to distance himself from his adversary in order to gain a little time to reestablish his footing. But in close quarters, adjustments had to be made when he was in the thick of things.
He feinted darting in; she rapidly backed off. She was as quick as a fox, he’d give her that. He feigned an attack three more times, before finally swooping in to catch her off guard, spin her about, and clamp his arms around her, pressing her back to his chest. In spite of her earlier efforts at the quintain, she smelled intoxicating and he lowered his head for a deeper breath. “I think it only fair that I interrogate my captive. How old are you?”
She went lax in surrender. “Three-and-thirty. You?”
“Thirty. How many lovers have you taken?”
Suddenly her foot was behind his calf, pulling him off balance. He landed hard on his backside, and she pounced, straddling his midsection, grabbing his wrists, and pinning them on either side of his head, levering her weight to hold him in place. He deserved it for misjudging her surrender as a ploy for preparation. He’d never found an opponent’s triumphant smile so incredibly sexy. He wanted to wipe it off her face with a kiss that lasted for days.
“None of your business,” she said levelly. “How many lovers have you taken?”
“Hundreds.” It was a lie, but the astonishment in her eyes gave him an advantage. Bending his knee and planting his foot to give him the ability to push off, he levered himself and rolled her onto her back, reversing their positions so she was trapped beneath him. “Based on the manner in which you speak and carry yourself, you’ve been tutored by the very finest, I’d wager.”
She arched a brow. “Is there a question, thou-who-has-imprisoned-me?”
He liked this lighter, teasing side to her, imagined her younger, more carefree, before she was charged with protecting a queen, and thus guarding an empire. “Was it part of your training for the Home Office?”
“No. My mother sent me to a finishing school. She had high hopes that I might land myself a gentleman.”
“And did you?”
