“I won’t let you out of my sight, Bronwyn, or let it get to that point,” he vowed. “I’ll do everything in my power to keep you safe.”

Her lips quirked. “No person can be everywhere at all times, but I am grateful that you’re here, Lord Spy.” She stared down at the ground and twirled the stick between her fingers.

“Why don’t you want to marry me?” he asked softly.

She glanced at him. “This again?”

“Answer,” he said. “Please.”

He saw her shoulders lift, the curve of her cheek as she took her lips between her teeth in aggravation. “Because it’s not for the right reasons.”

“You don’t care for your safety?”

A pair of luminous blue eyes met his when she turned to face him. “Now that you’ve not deemed me your foe for the moment, I know you will protect me, no matter what, Your Grace, whether I have the protection of your name or not. You just promised you would. For the sake of your friendship with my brother or perhaps the little that you care for me as a friend.”

“We are more than friends.”

“Are we?” she whispered, standing so close he could reach out and touch the silky brown curl that had slipped from her bun.

If you get arrested, as your husband, I cannot be used against you.

The words were on the tip of his tongue, but he did not say them. When the truth came out, once they were back in London, it could go any which way. If the handler in the British service was a turncoat, she would be guilty by association. If they weren’t and he had apprehended her, he would look the fool. He’d take the latter any day.

“I only want to protect you, Bronwyn,” he said in a low rasp when she closed the distance between them, the scent of her—cinnamon, apples, and forest air—crowding his nostrils and making his chest constrict. Then again, everything about her enticed him. The way she moved. The way she smiled. The way her sharp eyes stared him down as if they knew every one of his secrets.

So much so that he wanted to take her in his arms and show her without words how he felt. That his true reasons for marriage were the most selfish ones of all. He wanted her for himself, not in the arms of that ingratiating, knuckle-kissing marquis. Besides, as her husband, she would be bound to listen to him. The thought filled him with dry amusement. Who was he fooling? Bronwyn would do whatever Bronwyn wanted to do.

Her irises flared as her lips grazed his in the smallest, meanest of kisses.

God, he wanted to slip that kiss into her mouth. Take it deeper. Lose himself in the tart bite of her. But she pulled away, and he let her go.