“And I noted the dates were the same, but something didn’t sit right with me. The missives are about securing the ‘relic.’ But nothing we’ve done recently has been with this sort of smuggling. And then I started thinking. Why would they give locations all close together? If you were trying to keep someone from showing up at the right location, wouldn’t you want them widely scattered so it was more difficult?” she postulated.

“I suppose,” Rowles agreed slowly. He was still trying to wrap his mind around the concept that Joan, his Joan, was a spy of sorts. Or at least an aide to the War Office. Good Lord. His chest tightened at the idea, the knowledge of it sitting like a rock in his stomach, weighing him down. She was undertaking dangerous work.

Unaware of his internal struggle, she continued. “They clustered them together because it’s a trap. They don’t care where the War Office agent arrives. The group of miscreants will all be close enough to do whatever they intend to do. And they used the word ‘relic.’ Relics are usually holy items from the saints.”

“Yes, like the chains from St. Peter in Rome.”

“Exactly. Rowles…” She took a slow breath, her body angling to study his face fully. She swallowed, her green eyes troubled. “My name with the War Office is Saint.”

Understanding smashed into him like a hammer. “Good God, they’re after you?” Rowles’s muscles locked down as if preparing for a brawl. So help him, no one would touch her, not as long as he drew breath.

“Which is why Morgan left,” Joan continued. “He must have figured it out. I dispatched word to the War Office to send assistance, but I didn’t want to linger and wait till they arrived.”

“I can’t say I agree, but I do understand. I don’t like the idea of you being so close to danger.”

Joan shrugged. “But this doesn’t happen often—the danger part. Morgan will throttle me after I arrive and we take care of the situation. I’m sure I’ll endure the lecture of a lifetime.”

“He’s not the only one who will be lining up to lecture you,” Rowles commented softly.

Joan’s brow arched, and she met his gaze unflinchingly. “I do not require your approval, Rowles.”

The words hit him like a punch to the gut, because at once he knew they were the truth. They were engaged, yes. But not married. And she was her own person, with decisions that were hers alone to make, this being one of them.

And she had trusted him with this secret of hers.

“You’re right, but as your impulse is to protect your brother, my impulse is to protect you,” he answered. “So I will do my best to understand this. I ask you to give me time to adjust as well.”