He began with the same routine of jumping on the spot, drawing his knees high, then practicing kicking and punching moves. He varied it after that by grasping the top of the open bedroom door and pulling himself up to his chin then slowly lowering himself again. I lost count of how many after fifty.

Instead of using the handles connected by a chain next, he found a walking stick from somewhere in the bedroom and used it like a sword against an imaginary opponent. His actions were sleek and smooth, yet I imagined they would be lethal if he struck anyone. His face was rigid with concentration, his eyes fixed on his invisible foe with murderous intent.

I sat transfixed by the power in his graceful moves and the seriousness with which he practiced. What would distract him? A tickle? A kiss? My nakedness?

The mischief-maker in me was tempted to try, but I remained where I was, watching. When he finally finished and returned to the bedroom, I blew out a long, measured breath. It was shaky. Blood rushed through my veins and my heart pounded. The sight of him had affected me, the way a woman should be affected by a handsome, powerful man.

But not this woman, and not that man.

I tried to concentrate on my book to calm my tingling nerves and slow my heart, but I'd read barely a few lines by the time he emerged, wearing only a towel wrapped around his hips. That chest, those shoulders and arms…it was all too much, too overwhelming, too male. And I was weak.

I sprang up and rushed past him, catching a whiff of the spicy scent of his soap. Whether he thought my behavior strange or not, I didn't turn around to see. I shut the door with my foot and threw myself on the trundle bed. I pounded my fist into the pillow, but it did nothing to dampen the desire coiling within me. Perhaps I ought to take up exercising too and remove my frustrations that way.

Some time later, my blood had calmed but my head was still filled with images of a naked Lincoln Fitzroy, towel drying his hair, and then a naked Fitzroy exercising. Oh Lord, this had to be punishment for my sins. My one true sin was the necromancy, the devil's work according to Father.

If I didn't get away from Lichfield Towers—from Fitzroy—I would be found out. If I were found out, I would be in danger. I'd been a fool to allow myself to succumb to the comforts. He'd deliberately lulled me with food and clothing, a soft bed, pleasant walks. It was working. All he had to do was wait for me to confess so that I could stay at Lichfield.

Stay with him.

But I hadn't lost my will to survive. It had been with me so long that it was a difficult habit to break. It overrode everything else, even my desire for comfort and for him.