How had he been brought so low as to this base version of himself, driven by carnal need? This uncontrolled, wild creature that he loathed. This was why he kept his emotions firmly buried beneath layers and layers of pure frozen will. A man should not be ruled by his passions, especially not a man in the bloody business of espionage.

A chit who fancied herself a spy.

Valentine’s laugh was guttural. Did she have an ounce of sense in that fool head of hers? Gallivanting off with stolen reports and secret messages to America where she could have gotten herself killed or incarcerated, which would have had her wishing for death! He knew of the ills that went on in those places for prisoners of war. It didn’t matter if one was female. In fact, the cruelties of war were much worse.

God damn it! She made him see red. Burn red. He found her infuriating and intriguing in equal measure, but it was evident that she was in over her head, and whatever she was doing had to stop before she got hurt.

What on earth was she thinking by colluding with Van Lew? Who had put her in touch with the woman in the first place? He’d heard whispers of the infamous spy known as Crazy Bet in the last two years since she’d been recruited by Union General Benjamin Butler, thanks to some of his former associates in the know. Bronwyn was nothing like her. She was young, inexperienced, and untrained. A sheltered, delicate, highborn aristocrat.

She’s not so delicate.

Valentine recalled her grim determination and shot to the man’s thigh in the square, and he scowled. That could have been by pure accident, and if it wasn’t, so what if she could shoot a gun? Being a good marksman didn’t make her an expert in deadly situations. Now, she had a target on her back.

His anger returned full force. It wouldn’t compare to that of her brother’s however. Valentine didn’t want to have to be the one to tell the duke what his younger, unwed sister had been up to across the Atlantic with no chaperones or protection. Ashvale would have her hide the moment they docked and lock her away in a remote convent somewhere.

If she was lucky…

She was so maddeningly immovable, refusing to confess who her contact in London was. There was either a traitor in the Home Office or someone was running a clandestine operation under the authority of the one person who could approve something like this…the queen herself. Then again, nothing went without Palmerston’s sanction, so who the bloody hell was it? Who would endanger a duke’s sister?

She knowingly endangers herself.