She came in while he was still in the throes, conviction battling with commonsense, his own apprehension. Still—” Then, with incredible and obviously deliberate stupidity, and a voice as flat as her own, he asked, “Who is the man?” Her spirit raged within her at the dumbness, the paralysis that had fallen upon her. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. But whatever she may have said was lost as Gerald pinned her to the wall, the point of the sword at her throat. Brendon was silent. Had to. She romanticized, imagining a life on the High Seas. But her tears had been for Leonardo’s expulsion, and the loss of his companionship. Let me have more light, that I may behold him. There was no past, no future, only this exhilarating present.
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