Maggie’s eyes narrowed. “Baron has two agents stationed at the prime minister’s country house. They won’t allow an assassin to hurt the child.”
“I’m sure they won’t, but I didn’t exactly allow the man to stab me, and I’ll wager I have more experience than the men Baron assigned.” He shrugged. “I could be wrong.”
Maggie looked down, giving nothing away and everything. “We’ll talk about it in the morning.”
“It is morning.”
“When it’s light. Sleep now.”
“What about you?” he asked. “Surely you need sleep as well. I could shove over—”
“I’m fine,” she said tersely. “We’ll talk more when you’ve had some rest.”
Ambrose humored her by closing his eyes. When he opened them again, the sunlight streamed through the open drapes of the window. He’d never closed the drapes the night before. His gaze roved the room until it landed on Maggie, head on her arms at the table. She’d removed her spectacles and placed them neatly beside the book at her elbow. He could imagine her thinking she’d just put her head down for a moment.
Ambrose sat slowly, testing his wound. It still hurt, but the hurt was one of healing—skin being knotted back together. Not the pain of infection. He couldn’t assess his own skin for fever, but he didn’t feel as though he had a fever. He felt...hungry.
His gaze drifted to Maggie again. What the devil had he been thinking asking her to work with him to catch Vanderville’s hired assassin? He was her husband. His role was to protect her.
And for all the fervor with which he’d played that role, he’d only succeeded in pushing her away. Maggie didn’t want to be protected. Her outward bookish appearance hid the passionate woman within. She had as much of a taste for adventure and danger as he did.
At first, he’d enjoyed that side of her. She was inventive and energetic in bed. She was curious about his work for the Foreign Office. When they first married, he’d become a foreign diplomat—a position that allowed him to collect intelligence on the governments of foreign powers. He knew who their leaders met with and who was turned away, who formed alliances and who broke them. He sent all of the intelligence back to the Foreign Secretary.
He’d explained to Maggie that her role, as the wife of a diplomat, was to play hostess to the diplomats of other countries and visitors from their own. To his surprise, Maggie rebelled. He hadn’t required this of her when they’d been in England. His mother was the dowager viscountess then and happily took on the role of society matron. Ambrose hadn’t ever considered that Maggie wouldn’t want that role as well.
He hadn’t realized that even when she attempted it, she failed miserably.
Ambrose didn’t understand. She’d been raised the daughter of a gentleman. Her family’s property bordered his own country estate. They’d known each other for years before they wed. She was perfectly capable of hosting a dinner party. Her mother had hosted dozens over the years, many of which he’d attended. But a couple years into their marriage, Ambrose realized he didn’t really know Maggie at all.
Yes, he knew what her favorite foods were and her favorite positions in bed, but he didn’t know her hopes and dreams. She told him one night, after they’d fought because he’d insisted she host several members of his staff for a small gathering. She’d barely spoken a word during the entire evening, and at one point, she’d disappeared. He’d had a strong suspicion she’d gone to her chamber to read.
He’d drank too much, and he hadn’t been careful with his words. “What is wrong with you?” he’d snapped. “Why can’t you behave as a woman ought?”
She’d recoiled visibly. “And how is a woman to behave?”
“Smile, laugh, look pretty. Play the hostess and do me credit.”
Her shoulders had straightened, which he knew was a bad sign. But he was too drunk to shut his mouth before he put his foot in.
“And that’s my role in life? To make you look good?”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“You said I need to behave in a way that does you credit. I suppose the fact that we don’t have children hurts your credit as a man as well.”
“Maggie, you know I’ve never cared that we don’t have children, but I do care about my career.”
“And what about my desires?” she asked. “What about what I want?”
“I care about your desires,” he shot back. “I never leave you unsatisfied.”
She stared at him, and he realized he’d misunderstood. She hadn’t been talking about the bedchamber. She’d been talking about her dreams and aspirations for her life. But weren’t her dreams his dreams? Didn’t she want him to advance in his career? What more did a woman want than to help her husband succeed? Ambrose was not a complete idiot—not most of the time—and he loved Maggie, so he did what seemed reasonable. “What is it you want?” he asked.
Looking at her now, corkscrew curls spilling over her arms and making a splash on the worn table, he could almost hear her say the words she’d said four years ago.
“I want to be your partner.”
He’d taken her hands. “You are my partner. You’re my wife.”
