The Truth about Love

7

Late that night with the moon riding the sky, Gerrard stood in the balcony doorway of his bedroom staring moodily out at the silvered gardens, and considered where fate had led him.

Not by the nose, but by another part of his anatomy, together with a section of his psyche he hadn’t previously known existed.

He could hardly claim he hadn’t known what he was doing, that he hadn’t been cognizant of the dangers, the risks. He’d known, but had acted anyway; he couldn’t remember when last he’d been so heedlessly impulsive.

Arms folded, he leaned against the doorjamb; eyes fixed unseeing on the shadows below, he tried to get some mental purchase on what, precisely what, was driving him. It wasn’t anything he’d experienced before.

He knew what he wanted: Jacqueline. He’d wanted her from the moment he’d seen her watching him through the window when he’d arrived at Hellebore Hall-but what was driving him to it? The compulsion that was growing day by day, pressing him to make her his-from where did that spring?

Lust was certainly there, familiar enough, yet this was lust of a different order, an unusual degree. He’d lusted after ladies before; it didn’t feel like this. With Jacqueline, the drive came from deeper within him, from some more primitive, more intense realm of emotion…Words, as always, failed him, yet if he painted it, it would glow with myriad shades of red, all the varied hues, not just one.

The vision shone in his mind. After a moment, he shifted his shoulders, then settled back against the frame.

His reaction to her, his fascination with her, was only half his problem. The other half was her fascination with him. He was aware of that to his bones; every little twitch, every instinctive feminine response she made, he felt like a sharpened spur, digging in, heightening his awareness of her, stirring his lust, and the need to slake it.

Never before had he been in the grip of such elemental and reckless desire.

That was what had led to that kiss. Then her curiosity, her directness, had snared him, and drawn him with her into deeper waters.

Unwise. He’d known it at the time, but hadn’t called a halt, as he could have done.

Worse, he knew beyond doubt that it would happen again, and it wouldn’t end with just a kiss. If he stayed and painted the portrait he was now desperate to paint, met the irresistible challenge fate had laid before him and painted the work she and her father wanted and needed him to paint…

For long minutes, he stood gazing out at the night-shrouded gardens, grappling with what he now faced. If he stayed and painted Jacqueline’s portrait, he would risk falling in love with her.

Would the passion, the lust, the desire-all that love encompassed-drain the passion he drew on to paint? Or were the two separate? Or complementary?

Those were the questions he hadn’t wanted to face, that he’d hoped, at least for the next several years, to leave unbroached.

But they faced him now, and he didn’t know the answers.

And could think of only one way to learn them.

Yet if he took that route and the answer to his first question was yes…he would have risked and lost all he was.

Resigning Lord Tregonning’s commission and leaving Hellebore Hall immediately was the only way to avoid putting those questions to the test. The ultimate test. A good portion of his mind, the logical, cautious side of him, strongly urged leaving as the most sensible course.

The painter in him said no. Emphatically no. The chance to paint the gardens aside, he would never, not ever, find such a challenging portrait, such a challenge to his talent and skills. To walk away without even attempting it smacked of sacrilege, at least to his painter’s soul.

The man he was said no, very definitely no, too. Jacqueline trusted him; that was implicit in her behavior, in her invitation to him to be her champion, her “witting judge.” She needed him; the situation she faced was perilous, potentially life-threatening. She and her father had been right; with his reputation backed by his ability, he was the only one able to open the doors of others’ minds and free her from the peculiar web ensnaring her.

He stood staring into the night for half an hour more. Would he continue, paint her portrait and free her, accept and embrace the likelihood of falling in love with her, and so risk losing the one thing he valued above all else, his ability to paint?

Behind him in the darkened room, the clock on the mantelpiece chimed, a single bell-like note. With a self-deprecating grimace, he pushed away from the door frame and turned into the room. He was racking his brains to no purpose; his decision had already been made, virtually by default; he was here, so was she-he wasn’t going anywhere. Certainly not now he’d held her in his arms and felt her lips beneath his.

The die was cast, his direction set.

Closing the balcony door, he reached up to tug the curtain across-a movement in the gardens caught his eye.

He looked, and saw the bright glint again.

A spyglass on a tripod had appeared in the room the day after he’d arrived, courtesy of Lord Tregonning; he’d already set it to scan the gardens. Striding to where it stood, he brought it to bear on the area in question, quickly focused.

On Eleanor Fritham.

She walked down the path out of the wood in the Garden of Diana. Her hair caught the moonlight-the glint he’d seen.

“It’s one o’clock. What the devil’s she doing-” He broke off as, scanning ahead of Eleanor, he discovered someone else. Someone in a coat, with broader shoulders, stepping off the highest viewing platform, heading deeper into the gardens further down the valley. Some man, but he was already in denser cover, walking into the dips and shadows of the gardens. Eleanor followed, her steps light.

In seconds, they’d disappeared, dropping lower into areas out of Gerrard’s sight.

He put up the spyglass; he had little doubt of the meaning of what he’d seen. The Hellebore Hall gardens at night, drenched in moonlight, were the perfect setting for a tryst.

Heaven knew, he’d felt the magic himself that afternoon.

Inwardly shrugging, he finished drawing his curtain, and left Eleanor and her beau to themselves.

So tell me-what’s he like?” Eleanor looked into Jacqueline’s face, her own alive with curiosity.

Smiling, Jacqueline walked on. That morning after breakfast, Eleanor had arrived to stroll the gardens and chat, as she usually did every few days. Jacqueline had expected to have to deny her and devote her time to Gerrard, but when she’d looked his way inquiringly, he’d sensed her question and instead excused himself, saying he wished to look over his sketches from yesterday.

He’d headed upstairs, presumably to his studio, leaving her free to stroll with Eleanor, and appease her friend’s rampant curiosity. “You’ve seen him.” She glanced at Eleanor. “You’ve spoken with him. What did you think of him?”

Eleanor mock groaned. “You know very well that’s not what I meant, but if you want to know, I was taken by surprise-appreciative surprise, I hasten to add. He’s not at all what I’d expected.”

Indeed. Jacqueline stepped down from the upper viewing stage onto the path that led through the Garden of Diana and farther to the Garden of Persephone, and the spot where she and Eleanor most often sat and talked.

“He’s not quiet, not reserved, but contained, isn’t he?” Eleanor, eyes on the path, ambled beside her. “He watches, observes, but doesn’t react, yet there’s all that energy-all that strength and intensity-you can sense it, almost see it, but you can’t touch it, and it doesn’t touch you.”

She shivered delicately; glancing at her, Jacqueline saw an eager, frankly knowing smile playing about her lips.

Eleanor caught her gaze; her eyes shone. “I’d wager Mama’s pearls he’s a fantastic lover.”

Jacqueline felt her brows rise. Eleanor had had lovers-she’d never known who, or if there’d been one or more; Eleanor had freely described her experiences, but only in terms of the feelings, the excitement, the physical sensations.

Through Eleanor, she’d learned more than she would otherwise know, yet only in the abstract.

Until now.

He kissed me, and I kissed him.

The words hovered on her tongue, but she drew them back. Held back from sharing that piece of information she knew Eleanor would relish. She could imagine her friend’s subsequent questions: how had it felt, what had he done, was he masterful, what had he tasted like?

Wonderful, he’d opened her eyes, yes, he was masterful, but gentle, too-and male-he’d tasted like the essence of male.

Those would be her answers, but she was reluctant to share them. The incident yesterday hadn’t been intended, not by either of them. He hadn’t played with her hair intending to seduce her into a kiss, of that she was sure. And she…she hadn’t known that after his lips had touched hers once, she’d ache to feel them again-that she’d want, and be so brazen as to invite, so much more.

Yet he had, and she had. She wasn’t yet sure how she felt, or should feel, about either of those happenings.

While Eleanor had always shared the intimate details of many aspects of her life, she had always been more reserved, more circumspect in what she let out. But she knew Eleanor well; she would have to say more.

“Sitting for him has been quite different from what I expected. He’s only done pencil sketches so far, and he’s very quick with those.”

“Do you have to strike a pose? Jordan said he met you and Gerrard in the gardens yesterday, but that he’d finished by then.”

“Not finished-we were in between gardens. We strolled through, trying various spots. It’s not so much striking a pose as just sitting as he tells me to sit, then talking.”

“Talking?” Eleanor drew back to look at her. “About what?”

Jacqueline smiled and kept walking. Their usual bench lay just ahead, set between two flower beds. “Anything, really. The topics aren’t all that important. I’m not even sure he listens to what I say, not to my words.”

Eleanor frowned. “Why talk, then?” Reaching the bench, they sat. “It’s so I’m thinking of something-because of course I have to think of whatever I’m talking about. He’s more interested in what shows in my face.”

“Ah.” Eleanor nodded. They sat quietly for a few moments, then she said, “Mr. Adair’s quite interesting, isn’t he?”

Suppressing a cynical smile, Jacqueline agreed.

“He’s the third son of an earl, did you know?”

There followed a largely one-sided discussion of Barnaby’s character and person, with occasional comparisons to Gerrard. Jacqueline interpreted those with the ease of familiarity; as she’d expected, Eleanor found Gerrard the more attractive, an attraction only heightened by his apparent unattainability, his disinterest, but she viewed Barnaby as the easier conquest.

“Gerrard probably reserves all his intensity for his painting-artists can, I believe, be terribly selfish in that way.”

When Eleanor’s pause made it clear she expected a response, Jacqueline murmured, “I suspect that’s so.”

But he hadn’t been selfish yesterday. He’d been…what? Kind? Generous, certainly. He must be accustomed to dallying with experienced lovers; with her untutored kisses, she was very far from that. Yet he hadn’t seemed disappointed. Or had he just been polite?

Inwardly, she frowned.

“Hmm,” Eleanor purred. She stretched, raising her arms, pushing them up and out.

Glancing at her face, lifted to the sun, Jacqueline noted again the impression she’d gained the instant she’d seen Eleanor that morning. Eleanor’s expression was that of a contented cat stretching languorously in the sunshine.

Jacqueline had seen that expression before; Eleanor had been with her lover last night.

A spurt of some feeling rushed through her, not quite jealousy, for how could one be jealous over something one didn’t know-a yearning, perhaps, to…live a little. Eleanor was only a year older than she, yet for years Jacqueline had felt the gap between them widening. Before Thomas disappeared, they’d seemed much closer in experience, even though Eleanor had already taken a lover, but when Thomas walked away and never came back…from that point on, her life had stalled. Then her mother had died and life had been suspended altogether.

She’d been alive but stationary, going nowhere, learning nothing, not growing, or experiencing any of those things she’d always thought life and living were about.

She was tired of life passing her by.

It would continue to do so-leaving her to experience all that might be only at a vicarious distance-until Gerrard completed her portrait, and forced those around her to see the truth, and start the process of finding who had killed her mother and avenging her death; only once all that had occurred would she be free to move forward and live again.

Restlessness seized her. She stood and shook out her skirts, surprising Eleanor.

“I should get back to the house-I promised Gerrard I would make myself available to sit whenever he wishes, and he must have finished with his sketches by now.”

Contrary to her expectations, Gerrard wasn’t looking for her; he hadn’t sent or come searching for her. Treadle told her he was still in his studio.

She’d told Eleanor that Gerrard had insisted all sittings be private, just her and him, and that he’d made it clear he’d show none of his sketches or preliminary work to anyone; disappointed, but also intrigued, Eleanor had sauntered off, heading home through the gardens.

Jacqueline had returned to the house, only to discover her presence wasn’t required-not by anyone, least of all the ton’s latest artistic lion.

Disappointed-and irritated that she felt so-she found a novel and sat in the parlor. And tried to read.

When Treadle rang the gong for luncheon, she felt hugely relieved.

But Gerrard didn’t appear for the meal. Millicent, bless her, inquired, saving Jacqueline from having to do so; Treadle informed them that Mr. Debbington’s man had taken a tray up to the studio. Apparently his master, once engrossed in his work, had been known to miss mealtimes for days; part of Compton’s duties was to ensure he didn’t starve.

Jacqueline wasn’t sure whether to feel impressed or not.

When at the end of the meal, Millicent asked whether she would join her in the parlor, she shook her head. “I’m going to stroll on the terrace.”

She did, slowly, from one end to the other, trying not to think about anything-especially artists who kept all their intensity reserved for their art-and failed. Reaching the southern end of the terrace, she looked up-at the balcony she knew to be his, then lifted her gaze higher, to the wide attic windows of the old nursery.

Her eyes narrowed, her lips thinned.

Muttering an unladylike curse, she swung on her heel and headed for the nearest door, and the nursery stairs beyond.

Gerrard stood by the nursery windows looking out at the gardens-and not seeing a single tree. In his hands, he held the best of the sketches he’d done yesterday. They were good-the promise they held was fabulous-but…

How to move forward? What should his next step be?

He’d spent all day weighing the possibilities. Should he, for instance, insist that Millicent be present through each and every sitting from now on?

His painterly instinct rebelled. Millicent would distract, not just him, but Jacqueline. It had to be just the two of them, alone-in intimate communion, albeit of the spiritual sort.

His problem lay in keeping the spiritual from too quickly transforming to the physical. That it would at some point he accepted, but she was an innocent; wisdom dictated he rein in his galloping impulses to a walk.

A tap sounded on the door. “Come.” He assumed it was a maid sent to fetch the tray Compton had brought up earlier.

The door opened; Jacqueline walked in. She saw him, met his gaze directly, then, closing the door behind her, looked around.

It was the first time she’d been there since the area had been converted for his use. Her gaze scanned the long trestle table and the various art supplies laid out along its length; she noted the stack of sketches at one end, then glanced at the sheets he held in his hand.

Then her attention deflected, drawn to the large easel and the sized, blank canvas that stood upon it, draped in cheesecloth to protect it from dust.

Walking slowly into the room, she considered the sight, then transferred her gaze to him. “I wondered if you wanted me to sit for you.” She halted two paces away, beside the window, and waited.

He looked into her eyes, studied her face, then lightly tossed the sketches he’d been examining-for hours-onto the table; folding his arms across his chest, he leaned against the window frame, and looked at her. “No-you wondered what was wrong.”

She eyed him, not so much warily as considering what tack to take.

He sighed, and raked one hand through his hair, a gesture of frustration Vane had broken him of years ago. “I’ve only just met you, yet I feel I’ve known you forever.” And felt compelled to protect her, even from himself.

She hesitated, puzzled. “So…?”

“So I’m not sure I can do this.”

“Paint the portrait?”

He glanced up, saw consternation and fear fill her face. “Yes-but don’t look at me like that.”

Her eyes locked on his. “How else? I need you to paint that portrait. You know that-you know why.”

“Indeed, but I also know…” With two fingers, he gestured between them. “About this.”

The careful look returned to her eyes. “This what?”

Exasperated, he waved between them. “This, between us-don’t pretend you don’t understand, that you don’t feel it.”

For a long moment, she met his gaze steadily, her lower lip caught between her teeth. Then she drew a tight breath, and lifted her chin. “If this is about that kiss yesterday-”

“Don’t apologize!”

She jumped.

He pointed a finger at her nose. “That was my fault entirely.”

She huffed at him, a derisive sound. “I can’t imagine how me kissing you could be your fault. I wasn’t under any spell, no matter what you might think.”

He had to press his lips tight to stop them from curving. He straightened. “I didn’t mean to suggest I’d bespelled you.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Perhaps you thought I was so blinded by your charms I didn’t know what I was doing?”

“No, I didn’t think that, either. I do think I shouldn’t have kissed you in the first place.”

“Why?” She searched his eyes. Her expression grew troubled, sad. She swallowed. “Because of-”

“No!” He suddenly realized what tack her mind had taken; he cut her off with a gesture. “Not because of the suspicion leveled at you-good God!” His hand was running through his hair again, thoroughly disarranging the neatly cut locks; he abruptly lowered it. “It’s nothing to do with that.” It was all to do with him and her. “It’s because…”

He looked at her, met her green and gold eyes, let whatever it was that was in him reach for her, let the connection rise…He could almost feel the passion and desire surge to life, rippling between them.

“It’s because of that. This.” His voice had lowered, deepened; he spoke slowly, clearly. “Whatever it is that’s sprung to life between us.”

She didn’t say anything; eyes locked with his, she was listening, following.

He stepped away from the window, not directly toward her; slowly, he circled her. “It’s because the more I’m with you”-he prowled to stand directly behind her with only an inch separating their bodies-“the more I want to kiss you, and not just your lips.”

Reaching around her, he raised his hands; he didn’t touch her, but sculpted the air less than an inch from her body, slowly, caressingly running his palms over her shoulders, slowly down, over and around her breasts, her waist, her stomach, hips and thighs. His lips by her ear, he murmured, “I want to kiss your breasts, explore every inch of your body, taste every inch of your skin. I want to possess you utterly-” He broke off, drew in a quick breath, censored the too-explicit words that had leapt to his tongue. “I want to know your passion, all of it, and give you mine.”

He could feel desire beating at him with wings of heat; certainly she could feel it, too. Passion roiled about them, an almost palpable vortex drawing them in, down, under.

“I can’t be near you and not want you-not want to lie with you, to share every secret of your body and make it, and you, mine.”

Looking down at her, standing straight and silent before him, listening to and following his every word, he had to fight to lower his hands, to return them to his sides without seizing her.

He succeeded, and let his relief show in a long sigh. Softly, he said, “Doesn’t it scare you?” After a moment, he murmured, “God knows, it scares me.”

For half a minute, she said nothing, then, slowly, she turned and faced him. Only an inch separated her breasts from his chest.

She looked into his eyes; her expression was open, honest, direct-and determined. “Yes, I can feel it, but I fear death, not life. I fear dying without ever living, without ever knowing, without experiencing this-precisely this. Above all, this.”

Her eyes steady on his, she drew breath and went on, “I don’t know what might or might not happen, or come to be, or what dangers or risks are involved, but I don’t care. Because while I’m facing dangers and taking risks, I’ll be living, and not simply existing as I have been for so long.”

Her honesty demanded his. Her determination undermined his good intentions. “Do you know what you’re saying-what you’re inviting?”

“Yes.” Her lashes fluttered, then she met his eyes again. “You’ve been blatantly honest.”

Not honest enough. “I can’t promise…anything. I don’t know what might develop, how much of me I’ll be able to give you. I’ve never…” His lips twisted, but he held her gaze. “Been with a lady like you before.”

A lady who affected him so profoundly, in so many ways, in so intense a fashion. He had no idea how a marriage between them would work.

“I didn’t ask for any promises.”

Her voice remained steady, as did her gaze. He still felt driven to protect her. “Nevertheless, I’ll make you one. If at any time you want to call a halt, to retreat to a safer distance for a time, you need only say.”

He reached for her as the words fell from his lips. Her eyes widened as he gathered her to him, fully into his arms; her hands gripped his upper arms, yet as he lowered his head, she made no attempt to push back.

Instead, she tilted up her face, and their lips met.

And there was no drawing back. Not for him, not for her.

The vortex closed around them.

Passion rose, a hot wave, and sighed through them, powerful, yet restrained, the steady pull of an undertow beneath the waves. Restrained enough for the novelty to shine-for them both.

His head spun. This was so completely different from any other time, any other kiss…she was so completely different from any other woman.

The knowledge rocked him, left him open to a surge of feeling that colored every sensation, that turned her soft lips into a new and enthralling wonderland, transformed her body into a feminine landscape he had to explore-as if it were his first time. Slowly. Savoring every step, every moment.

Jacqueline parted her lips, invited him to take-and gloried when he did. Yet there seemed no rush, no urgency, no overwhelming, grasping passion; this, it seemed, was a time for exploration, for learning.

There was an unadorned, uncomplicated hunger in his kiss; she responded in kind, taking what he offered, taking all she needed. Pushing her arms up, she twined them about his neck, shuddered delicately when his arms tightened in response, drawing her fully against him, tight breasts to the hard wall of his chest, her hips to his rock-hard thighs.

No part of him seemed soft; against her giving flesh, his body was all muscle and bone, powerful, alien-all male. Her rational mind knew she ought to feel frightened, helpless and threatened by that potent strength, yet, bemused, she accepted that she didn’t.

If anything, she delighted in the contrast, his maleness emphasizing the female in her; if anything, she felt anticipation rise because of the differences, because of their promise.

His hands, long-fingered and strong, spread over her sides, gripping, then easing and moving over her back.

Spreading heat, a distracting warmth that rose even higher, spread even more when he angled his head and deepened the kiss. Eagerly, she pressed closer and followed his lead, tempted and very willing.

One hand moved down to the back of her waist, pressing there, locking her to him. The other glided up to curve over her shoulder, lingered there, close to her throat, warm palm against her exposed skin, then smoothly slid down, tantalizingly tracing the bare skin above her bodice before sliding down and around to close over one breast.

She lost what little breath she possessed, felt something akin to lightning streak down her nerves as he weighed her firm flesh, as he blatantly explored the full curves, expertly caressed, then closed his hand and gently kneaded.

A shudder of pure pleasure racked her; worried he might misinterpret, she pressed closer still, slid her hands from his nape into his hair, held his head steady as she kissed him, and with lips and tongue begged for more.

He understood; she felt his lips curve fractionally, then he accepted her unvoiced invitation, kissed her even more deeply, even more intimately, his tongue surging against hers in a rhythm she’d never known yet at some level recognized.

Her head started to spin; her wits slowly sank into a haze of warm delight.

His hands firmed; the one at her breast fondled, then his clever fingers sought out the peak, and rolled it, squeezed until she gasped through the kiss. Until pleasure bloomed and spread under her skin, like a wave rolling through her, pooling low to pulse between her thighs.

He leaned back against the window frame, drawing her with him; his artful fingers continued to play with her nipple, now tightly furled, while his other hand eased from her waist and slid down, over her hips, over her bottom, caressed, increasingly explicitly fondled, then cupped, closed, kneaded.

Her knees buckled. He held her, helpless, increasingly heated, increasingly wanting. Desire flared and spread under her skin; with hands and mouth, lips and tongue, he fed the conflagration.

She clutched his head, kissed him back, felt an unfamiliar urgency rise-

Footsteps pounded on the stairs beyond the door, coming swiftly up.

They broke from the kiss. She heard a muttered curse, realized it wasn’t hers, albeit she agreed with the sentiment.

Gerrard gripped her waist and set her back against the window frame; stepping away, he grabbed a sketch pad and pencil.

The door burst open. Barnaby stood in the doorway, breathing hard, his color high.

They blinked at him.

He blinked back, then waved. “Sorry-but…” He looked at Gerrard. “We’ve found a body.”

I was out walking-I took the path along the northern ridge.” Barnaby glanced over his shoulder as the three of them hurried along the path through the kitchen garden. “The path cuts through the Garden of Hades-it’s all cypress trees, a small forest of them. I noticed a section of bank higher up the ridge had crumbled away…there looked to be material, and an odd shape, so I climbed up to take a look.”

Insatiably curious-Gerrard had said Barnaby was so. Barnaby glanced back at her. Jacqueline met his worried look with grim determination. “Who is it?” she asked.

Barnaby cast an imploring look at Gerrard, then faced forward. “I couldn’t say. It’s not a…a recently deceased body.”

Her stomach lurched, but she clenched her teeth. They’d had a brief altercation in the studio, when Barnaby had tried to leave her behind. Gerrard had agreed with him, but wisely hadn’t said so; in the end, he’d taken her arm and let her accompany them.

But he wasn’t happy about it.

She set her jaw. This was her home, and if there were bodies buried in the garden, she had to know.

Her heart was thudding uncomfortably, high in her chest; she felt slightly dizzy. Heavy clouds had blown over, turning the breezy, sunny morning into an oppressive afternoon, with the rumble of thunder and the metallic tang of lightning a distant threat. As they left the wooden pergola and toiled up the path through the vines of the Garden of Dionysius, she was glad of Gerrard’s long fingers clamped about her elbow, steadying her.

Barnaby had alerted her father and Treadle before coming to find them. When they crossed into the Garden of Hades, into the dark shade of the cypress trees, they heard voices ahead. Looking up, they saw a group of men standing around a crumbling bank. The head gardener, Wilcox, was there, along with two of his men, armed with shovels. The head stableman, Richards, was there, too, as were her father and Treadle.

She stopped on the path. Barnaby continued, toiling up the slope. Gerrard glanced at her, and waited by her side.

Her father spoke with Barnaby, then turned and saw her. Barnaby looked at her, and suggested something. Her father hesitated, then nodded; carefully, ponderously, he made his way down the bank, Treadle hovering solicitously at his elbow. Barnaby followed a little way behind.

Her father reached the path; pale, a trifle out of breath, he took a moment to straighten his coat, then he leaned-truly leaned-on his cane. “I’m sorry, my dear-this is most distressing.”

She gripped his arm, fingers locking tight. “Who is it?”

Her father met her gaze, then shook his head. “We can’t be certain…” He sighed; raising his right hand, he opened his closed fist. “Mr. Adair wondered if you recognized this?”

She looked down at the fob watch that lay in his palm.

For a long moment, she said nothing, just stared while her lungs constricted and her heart thudded in her throat. Then she reached out-not to take the watch but with one finger to brush the dirt from the engraving on the closed lid.

She leaned nearer, looked. “It’s Thomas’s.”

A rushing roaring filled her ears and her vision went black.