“Don’t tease him, Temple,” Chase said from beyond the ring, shuffling through a pile of papers, only half paying attention to the sparring. “He’s having a difficult enough evening as it is.”

Lord knew it was true.

He’d let her go home. It had been the hardest thing he’d ever done.

Because what he’d really wanted to do was make love to her on the floor of the owners’ suite, with the light from beyond the stained glass bathing her in a myriad of colors. He’d wanted to prove that he had never once intended to dishonor her.

Indeed, the idea that he had dishonored her made him feel like a dozen kinds of ass.

Temple’s fist connected with his jaw in a perfect straight right, and Bourne rocked back on his heels.

“Why not go after her?” Temple asked, bending away from Bourne’s fists and coming back to land a quick blow to his chest. “Take her to bed. That usually makes them feel better, no?”

Bourne could not tell his friend that taking his wife to bed had landed him in this predicament to begin with. “When you find yourself with a wife of your own, you can offer all the advice you like.”

“By that time I won’t have to. You’ll have driven yours away for good.” He dodged back. “I like the girl.”

Sadly, so did Michael. “You don’t even know her.”

“Don’t have to.” Bourne’s right hook would have knocked out a lesser man, but the blow had no effect on Temple. Unfortunately. He simply pressed on. “Anyone who sets you off the way she does deserves my admiration. She’s garnered my loyalty for her part in tonight’s entertainment alone. And I imagine that Cross will be half in love with her by the time he returns.”

The words were meant to incite, and they did. With a growl, Bourne charged at Temple, who blocked two quick punches before getting in a jab to the stomach. Bourne cursed, and leaned into the other man, his breath coming as fast as his perspiration for one second, two. Five. Finally, Temple pulled back, and before Bourne had a chance to move, the larger man jabbed once, twice, sending Bourne reeling into the ropes, blood pouring from his nose.

This time, he was not fast enough to catch himself. He landed on his knees.

“That’s the round,” Chase called, and Bourne swore wickedly as Temple came forward to help him up.

“Leave it,” he snapped, coming to his feet and making his way to the chair at one corner of the ring, marked by a green handkerchief. “Thirty-eight seconds,” he said, ripping the cloth from the post, holding it to his nose, and tilting his head back. “I suggest you prepare your next counterattack.”

Temple accepted a drink from Bruno, his second in command, and drank deep before leaning against the ropes, widespread arms—each sporting a wide-banded tattoo across the massive biceps—covering nearly half the length of the ring. Temple might have been born into the aristocracy, but this was his kingdom now. “What did she say that has you so eager to take a beating?”

Bourne ignored the question, the explosion of pain in his cheek not doing its job, failing to take away all thought of what had happened earlier with his wife. Of how her blue eyes had flashed as she’d accused him of using her body to secure his interests. Of how she’d squared her shoulders and defended her own honor—something he should have done for her.

Of how she’d looked at him, truth and tears in her eyes, and told him that she’d missed him.

The words had taken his breath away—the idea that pure, perfect Penelope had thought of him, had worried about him.

Because he had missed her, too.

It had taken him years to forget—years that were erased in one moment of honesty, when she’d looked into his eyes and accused him of leaving her.

Of dishonoring her.

And there, in the pit of his stomach, still unmasked by the pain of Temple’s beating, was the emotion he’d feared since the beginning of this charade.

Guilt.

She’d been right. He’d misused her. He’d treated her as less than she deserved. And she’d defended herself with strength and pride. Remarkably.

And even as he’d tried to let her go, to push her from him, he’d known that he wanted her. He didn’t fool himself into thinking that the desire was new. He’d wanted her in Surrey, when she’d stood in the darkness with nothing but a lantern to protect her. But now . . . want had become something more serious. More visceral. More dangerous. Now, he wanted her—his strong, intelligent, kindhearted wife, who became more tempting every day as she shifted and blossomed into someone new and different than the girl he’d met on that dark Surrey evening.

And now, he was married to her, virtually bound by laws of God and man to take her. To lay her down and worship her. To touch her in every wicked way he could imagine.

To claim her as his.

And she wanted nothing to do with him.

He fisted his left hand, enjoying the stinging ache beneath the linen strips—the feel of the fight he’d just had, the promise of the one yet to come—and lowered the handkerchief. His nose had stopped bleeding.

If she had not decided to push him away today, it would have come eventually—perhaps after it was too late, when he was unwilling to release her. “I need someone to watch her.”

Chase looked to him. “Why?”

“Alles asked her to flee with him when I drag him through the mud.”

The other men shared a look before Temple said, “And you wish to pay someone to make certain it does not happen?”

He wanted to believe it would not happen. That she would choose him.