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Or marry Thornbury.
Bronwyn swallowed. No, she couldn’t. Marrying the duke—the leading man of every dream she’d ever had—would be too easy and would cost her her freedom. She could do this…survive off the merit of her own two feet, her wits, and a bucket of courage. Her spirit had never failed her before. She lifted her chin. “I don’t know what that has to do with my current circumstance.”
“The Union also sacked Richmond, and the Rebels surrendered on the ninth,” Thornbury went on in a low voice, and she frowned. That was only four days ago, but she hadn’t seen the latest newssheets in France, which no doubt might have covered the international news. “Those names you passed on from my report were shared with General Ulysses Grant. They’re looking for the men. Surratt and Powell might be headed for Canada. They think Booth is in Boston, and they’re still searching for the others.”
Bronwyn shivered. Booth was the main perpetrator as far as she had discerned. She hoped they would all be caught. The end of the American Civil War was encouraging news as well. War took a toll that could never be forgotten. For now, she avoided Thornbury’s astute glare. “I hope they catch them.”
“You’re still in danger, Bronwyn.”
She sniffed. “Marrying you would not be a deterrent to any man with a vendetta. My answer is no, Your Grace, so unless you intend to compel me to the altar somehow, might I propose an alternate suggestion?”
“Which is?” he bit out with a scowl.
“Teach me your methods to defend myself.”
***
The Bois de Boulogne was enormous. The park itself was several times larger than Hyde Park in London, and it used to be a royal hunting preserve, though much of the area had been neatly transformed into acres of walking paths and grassy areas for Parisians to enjoy when it had been acquired by the City of Paris nearly a decade and half ago. Other parts were still thickly wooded and less traveled. Which would suit Valentine’s purposes.
“Where are we going?” Bronwyn asked as she cantered beside him.
He glanced at her. “You wanted to learn to defend yourself so here we are.”
It chafed that she had disregarded his offer of marriage so cavalierly, though deep down, he had guessed that she would not accept, just for the sake of it. Taking a man’s name forprotectionwould be the last thing she’d do. Not her. Not theKestrel. While he admired that rebellious streak of independence, he cursed it, too, because even retired, his former name of Waterstone was known across continents and could deter the most hardened of criminals. He’d always been a fair arbiter, but the rumors about him being ruthless weren’t unfounded.
While she had admitted to nothing, he knew the foiled abduction in the United States was thanks to her. The only question was…who was she working for? It had to be someone at a high level, considering no one had openly sanctioned her role. Lisbeth had written that she was at a loss. The Kestrel was a ghost. So who had conscripted her?
The prime minister? Ashley? The queen herself?
Valentine didn’t know when he’d stopped thinking of Bronwyn as a criminal. Or whether he ever had. Her identity as a disreputable spy had confounded him, but they had to be on the same side. Her moral compass seemed to be in excellent order…and she hadn’t tried to stab him yet, though he was certain she wanted to. The funny thing was that he was not thinking of her as his enemy any more, considering what she’d accomplished, and he admired the fact that she hadn’t given in to his pressure tactics. Not once.
She was right that she needed to know how to protect herself, however.
In a more secluded part of the woods, he dismounted and secured their horses, before emptying his saddlebags. He brought out a case that contained two pistols and gestured for her to come closer.
“This is a Colt Army revolver, a single-action sidearm, capable of firing six shots, mostly used during the civil war that just ended,” he said, pointing to the first which he had given her on the Boulevard Haussmann. He pointed to the second. “That’s a Whitney revolver. It’s a solid frame with a similar percussion lock. For both, the hammer has to be cocked for each firing. But once each bullet and the paper cylinder with the black powder charge is loaded in the chamber, seated with the lever and the percussion cap set, it’s ready to go. These are likely the weapons Powell and his men will have.”
Blue eyes widened as she lifted the first gun. “It’s heavy.”
Valentine nodded. Bronwyn ran a thumb over the walnut grip before carefully placing it back down. Valentine didn’t want to think about what it would mean if any of the men on their heels were armed, but Bronwyn was right. Knowing what to do in a situation with an armed enemy was half the battle. When she was finished examining both, he placed the pistols back in the case and into his saddlebags. She frowned at him with a raised brow.
“I wanted you to be familiar with them,” he explained and bent to retrieve a broken stick from the ground. “We’ll use this piece of wood instead. What’s the first thing you do with an assailant who is armed?” he asked.
“Run away.”
“If you can safely, yes,” he said. “Run, hide, fight is a good rule of thumb. Always stay calm and control your emotions. If you can give them what they want, then do so. Under no circumstances go anywhere with them because the opportunity for escape will lessen.”
“Run, hide, fight,” she repeated softly.
“This is only a worst-case scenario, if they catch you unaware. Chances are Powell and his men won’t want to shoot you because they want something from you and they want to scare you. That’s an advantage, a slim one, but one you can use. The first goal is to get out of the line of fire and the second is to disarm them if you can.” He lifted the stick and handed it to her. “Here, take this.”
“Why?” she asked. “Shouldn’t I be disarming you?”
“It’s better if I show you first,” he said and took a step toward her. “May I touch you to demonstrate?” He glanced down at her. Was she holding her breath? Faint spots of red bloomed over her cheekbones when he settled his palms over her shoulders and maneuvered her body into the position he wanted. The touch was innocent, but his own body acted like it wasn’t.
Striving for control, Valentine shifted her stance so that her weight was centered and gently rotated her free arm at the elbow to point the stick at him. “If you’re dealing with a knife instead of a gun, it’s the same concept. You want to try to get out of the line of attack and aim to disarm by going for your foe’s arm. Even if they manage to cut you in the process, it will likely heal.”
“Is that what you did in Philadelphia?” she asked, glancing at the reddened scar visible over his collar.
