She went on her way now no longer dreaming and appreciative, but disturbed and unwillingly observant behind her mask of serene contentment. His fingers slipped under the collar of her linen shift and he tore it open with a swipe. An acute sense of living was in her veins, even the taste of her wine seemed magical. " He then hurried Darrell down another short flight of steps, and entered a small chamber at the back of the house. ‘Not if I heard him aright. Blueskin will take care of the horses, and I'll go with you. . ’ He strode to the fireplace behind the leather-topped desk and addressed his own reflection in the mirror, wagging an admonitory finger in his own face.
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