Page 68 of To Love A Spy
Her breath expelled in a sardonic sigh. “Like you, I’m a bit of a misfit in my world. Can you imagine me wed to a fisherman or a farmer?”
He didn’t answer.
“Most men, no matter their station in life, want a wife who will manage their household and bear their children. The skills of a trained assassin are not high on the list.” Not wanting to sound too bitter, she quickly tempered her tone with a light laugh. “I’m a bit too strong-willed to make any man a good wife. And a bit too old to change my ways. The Academy trained us to be self-reliant. I am quite happy as I am—free as a bird.”
“Free as a bird,” he repeated softly. “Are you happy, Valencia? Or have I been terribly selfish in thinking there is a honorable purpose in taking young girls and training them for a life of violence.”
Valencia had never heard Lynsley sound uncertain. Her fingers tightened around his. “We did not exactly come from a world of sweetness and light, Thomas. Trust me, the stews are a far more vicious than any opponent you’ve ever asked a Merlin to face.”
“That’s too easy an excuse.”
“Throughout our training, we are constantly given a choice. And many take advantage of the skills you give us to work in less demanding jobs. Those of us who go on to earn our wings do so because we believe in the same things you do.”
Lynsley stared out at the fogged windowpanes. “At times, that is cold comfort.”
Seeking to keep him from withdrawing into the darkness of Lord Lynsley’s lair, she quickly asked, “Tell me more about the founding of the Academy.”
“You know the story,” he murmured. “A book I read early on inspired the idea.”
“So you have said.” Valencia mulled it over. “And yet, your commitment seems far more personal, far more . . . passionate than a mere story.”
He seemed to flinch. “Now it is you who are being romantic, Valencia. I was merely being pragmatic in trying to think of a way to counter the threat to our freedoms. Nothing more.”
She didn’t believe it, but much as she wished to press him further, her eyes slowly fluttered shut.
Lynsley sat back, watching the play of moonlight on her face as Valencia drifted off to sleep. She looked so achingly young with her hair loose and curling over the delicate lace of her nightrail. In repose, her expression was unguarded, a girlish smile curving her lips.
His throat tightened in regret and recrimination. She, and so many orphans like her, had never had a real youth. They had been robbed of their innocence early on. With no one to shield them from harm, they had been forced to confront the sordid realities of life. No child should experience that nightmare.
Had he been wrong to take them and given them a way to fight back against injustice and tyranny? Perhaps, like the street pimps and bawdy house matrons, he was just using them.
Despite all his high-minded principles, maybe he was no more than a pompous prig.
What a dirty, depressing thought.
It was not the first time he had brooded over such things. But Valencia’s face—her courage and her heart shaping every curveand shadow—forced him to confront his own mixed feelings in a far more visceral way than his usual cerebral debates.
The marquess felt a twisting tension course through him. Oh yes, it was physical, this fight between conscience and duty. Right and wrong. Need and necessity.
Far too physical.Strange, it had been a long time since he felt such a simmering in his blood. He was no longer an impetuous youth. He had learned to keep desire under control.
What did he want?
Lynsley didn’t dare admit it.
He rose, hands fisted at his sides. Reason told him to return to his own rooms, but some perverse power held him place. He reached out, his hand hovering a hair’s breadth above her cheek. The candle flickered, its fading light playing over her features. He couldn’t help himself—leaning closer Lynsley let his fingertip traced the thin scar just above her brow.
A memento of an Academy test of fencing skills.The day was still sharp in his memory. Her opponent’s foil had lost its button during the bout and drawn blood. A good deal of blood, as he recalled. But Valencia, a rapier thin girl of fifteen at the time, had shrugged it off with a laugh.
A badge of honor, she had called it. Like the members of the Prussian dueling societies, who prided themselves on meeting any challenge with unflinching resolve, she had picked up her sword and insisted on continuing the match.
How many other nicks and cuts lay hidden beneath her lace?
Likely too many to count, he thought with a pang of regret. A sigh, soft as a zephyr, stirred the air as he brushed his lips to her hair. He would give an arm and leg to make her whole again. But he was no Merlin, no modern-day magical wizard with extraordinary powers.
He was just a man, with all too many human flaws.
His mouth hardened. Despite his own damnable weaknesses, he vowed that he would come up with a way to keep her from further harm. Already an idea was taking form in his head . . .
