Page 47 of For the Duke's Eyes Only

Yet four of Le Triton’s trained assassins had attacked with knives and pistols.

Kill or be killed.

Jones was dead.

Raven had been left for dead. He’d lain there with flies buzzing around his ears and people shouting at him. He’d played dead until he was sure his attackers were gone. Then he’d staggered into a nearby church, faint with blood loss, the sound of death ringing in his ears.

As the priests bathed his wounds, he watched his blood mix with water on the stone floor and run in rivulets across the stone floor.

Perhaps it had been the loss of blood, or the sun shining through the stained-glass window depicting a female saint with piercing eyes.

Faced with death, he’d questioned the choices he’d made. At thirteen, he’d been so certain of his destiny. Become a spy for the Crown, as his father had been before him. Become an agent and clear his father’s name.

But he’d been so young when he made the choice and Sir Malcolm sent him away to the brutal, grueling secret training school in Scotland.

When Indy had made the quip about a thrilling assignment for the Crown he’d wanted to grip her by the shoulders and shake some sense into her. There was nothing glamorous or exciting about his work.

Long periods of tracking and surveillance, waiting for someone to make a mistake, to show their hand, followed by intense bouts of intrigue and combat.

Stop a war. Topple a despot.

The physician dug his thumb into a sore place on his back.

Raven made no sound, though it hurt like the blazes.

He avoided his reflection in the large glass mounted on the wall. He knew what he would see; a map of scars detailing every battle he’d fought.

The wounds belied his reputation as someone who hired others to do his dirty work.

Indy could never see him less than fully clothed. Not that she would ever have cause to see him unclothed. Just as he’d never see her less than fully clothed.

Or gloriously naked.

Tangled in his sheets and purring with pleasure.

His cock stirred. Dr. Ackerman glanced at him.

Let the man think that pain gave Raven pleasure.

There were brothels catering to that—men who wanted to be whipped with riding crops or even beaten with fists. He’d never understood the reasoning behind the fixation.

He absorbed too many beatings during the daylight to want one at night.

Thinking of Indy always stirred his blood, but it wasn’t only erotic imaginings that captured his mind. What sometimes stirred him the most were far more objectionable thoughts.

What his life might have been like if he’d followed a different path. Married Indy and gained a partner in adventure... traveling, living, discovering together.

His hands never bloodied... his body never battered.

Sometimes, in the quiet moments between awareness and his fitful version of sleep, he pictured them standing before an altar. He painted their wedding night in vivid color and detail.

And then sometimes, when he wasn’t being vigilant enough, a fantasy rose in his mind. The same fantasy that had filled his mind while he lay in that church, not knowing whether he would live or die.

Sitting with Indy in comfortable chairs in front of a fireplace in a house somewhere. He never knew where they were, and never cared, because she was there with him and that was all he’d ever wanted.

They were older. When she smiled there were faint wrinkles around her lovely eyes. He loved the way the firelight caught and held the first strands of silver threading her black hair.

They weren’t alone.

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