Page 54 of To Love A Spy
“And the Sun King?” she asked.
“Louis XIV added his own touches of splendor, but he also wished to cut down the forest in order to build up his navy,” he answered. “Luckily for England, that idea evaporated over time. However the Montgolfier brothers did launch their first hot air balloon from here.” Lynsley looked around at the deserted paths and overgrown glades. “Unfortunately war has once again reduced the Bois to a haven for robbers and thugs. Proper Parisians don’t often venture here.”
“Ah. So is that why you bring along your valet? In case you have need of someone to defend you from such ruffians.”
“A little respect for your elders,” he growled, exaggerating a grimace. But despite making light of it, the comment pricked a little at his pride. At barely forty he still considered himself to be in the prime of life. “I’ve not yet grown so decrepit that I can’t wield a weapon. I’ll have you know I can still thrash any of Merlins on the fencing field. Even Da Rimini admits that he is hard pressed to claim victory.”
“Best a Merlin?” Her chin took a challenging tilt. “It would be interesting to test that assumption. My skills have not grown so rusty over the years that I can’t still cut a creditable riposte.”
“I will take your word for it,” he said quickly, unwilling to have the air of easy camaraderie between them cut short by a crossing of verbal swords.
Valencia looked about to retort, then she, too, seemed to think better of it. Instead, she asked, “Why do you come here?”
“It seemed a logical place to look for a bolt hole, if ever we have to take flight. I’ve found several spots where we might take cover for a short time while deciding on a next move.”
She looked around with a well-trained eye. “I see.”
“And as I said, it’s not frequented by thehaute monde, so it’s a perfect place to engage in vigorous exercise without drawing undue attention,” went on Lynsley. “I’ve found a small clearing and stone cottage that makes an excellent private training ground. Bailin keeps watch on the bridle path, to warn of anyone approaching.”
“Please don’t let me disrupt your routine.” Valencia tightened the reins to keep her mount from shying from the snap of a twig. “Perhaps I’ll have a look around on my own.
“I would rather you didn’t stray,” he replied, hoping she wouldn’t misinterpret his reasons.
The thud of hooves on the damp earth echoed his own mounting misgivings. Maybe it had been a mistake to ask her to come along. These intimate interludes seemed to ignite strange sparks between them, which all too often turned into a flare of fire. The morning was tranquil, a soft light dappling the budded branches of the trees and a gentle breeze stirring the meadow grasses. He did not wish to spoil the day with a fight.
“A good point. You are right to err on the side of caution,” she allowed after some hesitation. “Then I’ll just sit and watch, if you don’t mind.”
Valencia dismounted and took a seat on the ruins of a low wall that had once fenced in a small paddock area. The stone outbuilding facing her—a stable, she guessed—had long since lost its roof and doors, but the thick walls had withstood the ravages of time. Set between the two structures, a rectangularswath of dusty ground was well-shielded from the casual observer.
The marquess removed his coat and cravat, then methodically unfastened his shirt collar and rolled up his sleeves. Sunlight glinted off the golden hairs of his forearms, setting off the cording of sinew and muscle. Turning, he moved with a sure, silent step to the open archway where an iron cross bar was still set high in mortared stone.
Setting aside her shako, Valencia shaded her eyes, curious to observe what sort of training regime he had improvised. Whatever it was, the routine appeared effective.
Lynsley reached up and grabbed hold of bar, slowly pulling himself up until his chin touched the pitted metal. He held the position for a moment before dropping down, keeping his knees bent so his feet didn’t touch the ground.
One . . . two . . . three . . .
He repeated the exercise twenty five times before dropping back to earth.
No wonder his shoulders and arms were solid as steel, thought Valencia.
The marquess then proceeded through a series of exercises with two short iron rods. Lifting, spinning, swinging, he worked his biceps, his forearms and his wrists. A sequence of leg lunges came next, followed by several body stretches.
He turned, sweat glistening on his face, hair ruffling in the light breeze, His linen shirt was now damp and clinging to the contours of his torso.
Averting her eyes, Valencia was aware of a tingling sensation somewhere deep inside her that quickly spiraled out through her limbs. Lynsley was no longer looking like a perfectly polished patrician. He exuded a virile masculinity. An earthy, elemental attractiveness at odds with his carefully cultivated image as a paragon of propriety.
Again, she could not help from wondering why he wasn’t married. It was puzzling. Provoking.
Never had she met a man so shrouded in secrets.
“A warm day,” he remarked, uncorking a jug of water and taking a long swallow. “I trust you are not too uncomfortable?”
“Not at all,” she replied, leaning back into the shade. Had he spotted the telltale flush of color? She repressed the urge to fan her cheeks.
Lynsley appeared not to notice her agitation. He picked up a length of rolled canvas that lay alongside the hamper of food and drinks that his valet had transported from town.
The softsnickof steel sounded as the cloth fell away to reveal a set of fencing foils.
