“You ran,” he demanded in a low voice. “Why?”

“You would have done the same.” That jewel-bright stare dropped to the gardens. “We both know what you think of me and what you intended. I will go back to London on my terms.”

“I can arrest you right now.”

She had the audacity to laugh. “Restrain me and put me in handcuffs? In front of all these good people? You and I both know that you respect my brother too much for that. No, Your Grace. You can hover as much as you like, but if you think you will catch me unaware and alone, then think again.”

Deuce it, he wanted to devour the bravado from her lips. Ferry her down into the shadows of the garden and repeat their encounter in the woods until the only sounds coming from her mouth were whimpers and moans for more.

“And what if you’re in danger?”

That bare shoulder lifted, drawing his eyes to the tantalizing slope of creamy skin as she scoffed. “You can’t have it both ways, Your Grace. Either I’m a terrible danger to all and sundry, and must be taken into custody, or I’m a damsel in need of your strength and manly protection.”

Valentine stared at her, so close and yet infinitely beyond his reach at the moment for precisely the reason she’d stated. Arresting her in public would cause no end of scandal. For the moment, his hands were tied. “You can’t hide forever, my lady Kestrel. At the end of all of this, you will be in handcuffs, I promise you.”

Husky laughter that shot straight to his groin drifted from her as she returned to her friends. “So you say, Your Grace, so you say.”

Sixteen

The dratted man was everywhere.

And Bronwyn meant every single place she went in Paris, she was acutely aware of his presence, as if he were waiting for her to slip up so he could arrest her like a thief in the night. Of course, she could be imagining things, but Thornbury wasn’t a man who would leave anything to chance. Which was why Bronwyn was never alone. Poor Monsieur de Tremblay was becoming a crutch as her preferred escort, but the friendly marquis didn’t seem to mind the designation.

“I shall have to be extra careful,” he’d told her once during an afternoon stroll through the Tuileries. “Or I will lose this rather dissolute heart to you.”

Bronwyn had patted his arm. “One cannot fall in love in less than a week, Monsieur le Marquis.”

“I assure you, I can,” he’d replied with a feigned swoon. “You should marry me and put me out of my misery.”