Sisters of Colford Hall 01 - The Invasion of Falgannon Isle (23 page)

“After a rough wooing.” Her laugh was musical.

Accepting a glass, he swallowed some peaty Scotch. “Tell me about this rough wooing.”

“Deporadh borrowed money from Iain, Laird of Dunstrathraven, offering a piece of Falgannon as collateral. She failed to repay The Sinclair. He came to claim his chunk of the isle. When she blocked him from landing, he stormed the castle and took her prisoner.”

Prickles crawled over Desmond’s scalp, seeing the story in his mind as a memory, and recognizing the striking parallel to their lives now. Pulled back to the sword, he ran his index finger along the cross-guard. “Kept her prisoner?”

“Locked away for months. Deporadh refused to deed the land to him. It became a battle of wills. You might say he won, claiming her and the castle. But I’m convinced Deporadh saw he had green eyes and not repaying the loan was the quickest way to get him to come after her.”

“What about the Irish blood?”

“His mother was Irish, a Fitzgerald.”

Desmond choked on the whisky.

B.A. patted him on the back. “Des, are you all right?”

He nodded, observing her reaction. “My mother’s a Fitzgerald.”

“And Sinclair blood is in you.” B.A. cocked her head.

“Yes. Paternal grandmother.”

“Interesting, how you have both Fitzgerald and Sinclair blood—and green eyes.”

He focused on the sword. “Where’s the original?”

“In the safe—”

“At Colford,” he guessed. “Damn it, B.A.! First Annie’s candle, then The Sinclair’s sword. What else does Colford have that belongs to u—?”

She licked her lips, eyes dancing.
“Us,
Des?”

He didn’t know why he was so irked, but: “Falgannon’s history belongs here.”

She put her hand on his arm.
“Us?”

“Well, I own part of Falgannon.”

“So you claim.” Flashing him a look that said coward, she sat on the arm of the sofa.

Too restless to sit, he raised his glass. “Here’s to pixie dust, ancient curses”—Dudley hopped up on the couch’s back, coming to pester B.A.—“and kitties that play poker. But most of all, to BarbaraAnne Montgomerie. She takes my breath away.”

A tear glimmered in B.A.‘s eye. Removing the glass from her hand, Desmond set it and his own on the coffee table. His lips found hers, brushed them, the tenderness causing a small gasp to escape her. Taking advantage, he deepened the kiss.

A racket broke out from below the castle, causing them both to jump.

“Bar bar bar bar Barbara Ann

Bar bar bar bar Barbara Ann…”

B.A. groaned. “I’ll kill them. Will save finding them brides.”

“This isn’t part of the official Lady of the Isle ceremony, I take it?” Curious, he followed her onto the roof.

Going to the east wall, they looked down through the crenellations to see the Michaels, the Fraser Twins, Jock and Callum singing an off-key rendition of the old Beach Boys’ tune. At the rear of the group were two tall blond men. Wulf had his arm draped around Janet.

Wrapping B.A. in his embrace, Des asked, “Might the castle still have vats of boiling oil?”

“A chamber pot would come in handy.” She stuck her tongue out at the men below. “When I was growing up, anytime they wanted to get on my nerves, they’d break out in that song. They haven’t tormented me this way since…”

When she hesitated, Desmond finished, “Evian’s death?”

She nodded, smiling sadly.

Desmond noticed Dudley chasing his shadow across the roof, more active than he’d ever seen him. A power, an energy radiated atop this castle. Kitty sensed it. The first day he’d come here to confront her, he’d recognized how it affected B.A., witnessed her drawing strength from it.

That force now charged him. For the first time in years, he felt so… light. As though the troubles, pain and driving need for vengeance within him had been grounded and neutralized. He wanted to chase shadows across the castle roof with Dudley.

Tightening his arms about B.A., he asked, “Will that caterwauling go on long?”

She rubbed her shoulders against him. “You have plans?”

“How about having our own ‘installing the Lady’ ceremony?”

“Could you be more specific?”

His body jerked. “My mind wonders about those winter months when Iain kept Deporadh prisoner. I’m curious about this rough wooing.”

“I dinna say it was wintertime.”

“I’ve a good imagination,” he evasively replied.

He took her mouth, basking in the pounding she set loose in his blood. Scooping her up in his arms, he swept her inside Lady Cottage and up the stairs to the loft bedroom. He wondered if Iain Sinclair had felt that same drive to claim Deporadh Mackenzie.

Desmond lowered her to her feet, kissing her like he was a drowning man and only she could save him. He smiled in the kiss, feeling her knees go wobbly. Her fingers bit into the muscles of his arms, hanging on—just the reaction he wanted to draw from her. In the morning he’d face telling her about his plans, of the North Atlantic oil rigs. Tonight he’d make love to her, bind her to him so she’d know they belonged together no matter what. Brand her so she’d never let another man touch her.

Breaking the kiss, Desmond turned her and lifted her long hair over her left shoulder. Slowly, he drew the gold cord through the laces on the back of her gown, exposing her lustrous skin. He chained kisses down her spine, smiled when she shivered, the shudder crawling over her skin. He savored it, felt it under his mouth.

He wanted to draw this out, to delight in every magical second, only the need to mate thundered through his body. He pushed the gown off her hips, revealing a red thong.

“Do you buy them by the gross?” He whistled, turning her. “Mercy, you’re not wearing a bra, just that scrap. It’s hard on my system, lass.”

Placing his hands on her hips, he slid down against her until his knees were on either side of her feet. Her breath inhaled on a sharp intake as he glided his hands up, cupping the weight of her breasts. His thumbs brushed circles around her sandy-colored areolas, then across the stiff peaks of her nipples, jutting more with each stroke. She was so responsive. He took one breast into his mouth, not suckling like a babe, but as a man, drawing hard, laving his tongue against the tiny bud. As she swayed, he wrapped his arms around her derriere, lifted and tossed her diagonally onto the bed.

B.A. gasped, “Desmond!” then laughed.

He grabbed his poet’s shirt and yanked it over his head, tossing it into the shadows. B.A. watched as if he were her personal Chippendale heading for the Full Monty. By her flashing eyes he saw she was turned-on by the leather pants. He owed Willie for that.

He climbed on the high bed and then straddled her. Keeping his weight on his knees, he asked, “Ever wonder how Iain handled his Lady of the Isle? Would Deporadh have cowed in the corner and quivered in fear, or would she have fought him?”

“Mackenzie women have always been warriors,” she replied cautiously.

Rays from the full moon beamed through the skylight, partially banishing the darkness of the loft. The silvery glow caressed them, rendering them enchanted beings. She was pinned beneath him. But then, trying to escape appeared to be the last thought on B.A.‘s mind.

“Buckle up, baby, it’s going to be a rough ride.” He flashed his teeth in a predator’s smile.

“I do like these breeks.” Sitting up, she put her hands on his leather-encased thighs. She snaked them up his body, tracing his contours. His stomach muscles contracted as her thumbs stroked his erection defined against the leather. “I wonder if Ian took her prisoner, or if he fell into
her
trap. I think she lured him here and—”

“Made him her sex slave? A longstanding tradition with you Mackenzie wenches.” He pulled her hands from his groin. “Ah, no touchy-touchy the sword of The Sinclair, wench. You’ll prick your thumbs on the sharp blade.”

“Prick my finger on a prick!” B.A. fell back, howling with laughter.

Often men thought of laughter in the bedroom as out of place. From B.A. it was perfection, like healing sunlight pouring into his dark soul. He leaned forward to caress her breast, which was damp from his mouth.

“Responsive wench.” He kept circling it with his thumb, watching the areola ruche tighter, relished her raspy sigh of delight. As she closed her eyes, he stopped toying, took the nub between his finger and thumb and gave it a light pinch, then rolled it. Her hips bucked, but not in pain. Too lost to the sensual buzz vibrating in her blood, the razor-edged desire rose another notch.

He pushed her arms over her head. Before she fathomed his intentions, he caught her wrists and wrapped the gold cord from her dress around them. “I think The Sinclair would’ve been cautious dealing with a Mackenzie lady.”

“Desmond?” She yelped as he hooked the cord around the post of the headboard.

His eyes roved over her body—arched so beautifully, a pagan offering. He smoothed his hand over one breast and down her stomach, which quivered under his palm.

“Going to leave the boots on, Des?” Her body quaked with suppressed laughter.

Desmond had always had a strong sexual appetite, but even baser, animalistic needs drove him. Play and laughter never had a place in the bedroom before. With B.A. everything seemed new. This capricious banter only sharpened his need to be close to her, sharing—and not just physically. Closer to her mind, heart and soul. He’d use their bodies to create a white-hot blaze, fuse them together so tightly she wouldn’t know where she ended and he began.

Once more, images besieged his mind, flashing to the morning after B.A. first ordered him off her island. He’d awoken to an erotic dream of her tied to the bedposts. He’d assumed it was the bed in Rose Cottage. Only now, reality slammed into him. It was
this
bed, the oak wood he’d seen in his vision, not the antique white frame, this same gold cord binding B.A.‘s wrists.

“Desmond, you pass out with me trussed up like a Christmas goose and I’ll bite you,” B.A. teased, but he saw quizzical flickers in her eyes.

Pushing the images away, he brought his mouth down to hers, nibbling along her lower lip. “Silence, wench, you’re about to be ravished.”

She bumped her hips against his, provocative. “What’s the hold-up, Des? Ravish away!”

“I’m considering if I need a pair of golden spurs. Knights of Auld wore spurs, didn’t they?” he teased to cover his confusion.

“Spurs aren’t required accoutrements for ravishment.”

“Willie might have a different opinion on that.”

B.A. drew a ragged breath as Desmond slid down over her body, his mouth catching the sensitive peak of her breast. His tongue swirled around the crest, teasing, tormenting, while those magician’s fingers tended the other one. Her body bowed against him, her desire an ache that twisted inside her, her need for this man devastating. The longing went deeper than the flesh; it reached to the timeless soul, touching her in a way no man before had. The way no man ever would. Only Desmond.

She wanted his hard body pressing her into the mattress, wanted to be over him controlling the pace. Wanted him inside her. The thud of his heart slammed against her thigh as he continued the downward slide. Frustration rising, she wanted to howl as the golden cord kept her stretched, open to his pleasure. She wanted to feel her hands on those wonderfully sculpted muscles, to clutch the arch of his spine as he entered her.

Then his mouth moved on her, on her hot core of need. Incapable of thought, she drowned in the blinding pleasure, the rough lap of his wicked tongue. She splintered into a thousand pieces, coming against his mouth. She feared there’d be no putting Humpty Dumpy back together again.

Desmond reared back and yanked the slipknot on the gold cord. Releasing her, he unlaced the front of his leather pants… and cursed.

B.A.‘s eyelids batted. “What’s wrong, Des?”

“Hang on, love, you’re getting ravished by a man in leather pants. The bloody things are glued to me. My skin’s too hot and sweaty to get them off.”

“Ravished by a man in leather pants!” B.A. grinned. “Am I lucky or what?”

Desmond laughed and finally slid into her slick, welcoming heat.

And ravish her he did! Thoroughly, blissfully, through the night. Once fast, rough and furious, like a summer storm breaking over Falgannon. Next, so slow and tender it brought tears to her eyes. When he set her atop him, she seized the chance to turn the tables. Undaunted, he’d pushed her from one shattering climax to another. Each time she thought she had nothing left to give, he bucked his body into her, harder, deeper, more frantic, until she did his bidding.

She surrendered every response he commanded, leaving her wrung out, shaky.

Nearing dawn, B.A. rested half on her stomach. Desmond kissed the small of her back and spooned his body against hers. Flexing his muscles, he pressed her into the feather mattress. She sensed by his breathing he half-drifted, yet he couldn’t stop touching her, kissing her. He stilled, his body relaxing, heavy upon her. It was a weight she relished.

She thought him asleep until he whispered, “B.A.?”

“Mmm?” She stroked her hand over his, resting against her stomach. He lifted it slightly, lacing fingers with hers.

“Don’t tell your lads, but I don’t have a drop of Viking blood in me.”

“They’d forgive you. You’ve something better, remember. You’ve Sinclair and Fitzgerald blood.”

“Yeah, I do, don’t I?” He sighed. “Will you forgive me?”

“Des, I’d forgive you anything,” she murmured, her eyelids too heavy to keep open. She savored Desmond’s body around hers. Felt safe, protected. Loved.

He squeezed her hand, then noticed the thin gold band with the oval peridot she always wore on her ring finger. She never removed it, not even when she showered. He slid it off and transferred it to his left pinkie finger as if sealing a pact. “Remember that promise, lass. I’m going to hold you to it.”

Chapter 20

Sliding across the huge bed, B.A. discovered Des was gone. The feather mattress was cold under her hand. Though the plaint for sleep was strong, she needed to see him. To reassure herself? Of what? Their lovemaking had been beautiful, exciting, consuming—a fantasy brought to life. Yet, underneath, prickles in her blood warned some dark urgency had driven Des, as if he needed to imprint his very essence upon her soul.

An ostrich burying her head in the sand, she hadn’t pressed Desmond about anything, not wanting such details to intrude upon their relationship. Why he’d come didn’t matter. Still convinced she didn’t want Falgannon changed by the flocks of tourists he’d prefer, she’d avoided bringing up the subject. The longer he stayed, the more he became a part Aof the island. The harder it’d be for him to leave or change it.

Yawning, she ambled down the staircase from the loft. After a quick inspection she established neither Desmond nor Dudley were on the castle—something she instinctively knew. Her cozy little home felt empty, cold without their bright sparks. The bottomless pit and Desmond were probably off in search of Tarn’s scones.

Hearing a car door slam, she rushed out to meet the pair. Smiling, she watched her men trod up the steps. Desmond carried a warmer tray from The Hanged Man. Dudley hopped in an uneven gait, never taking an eye off it.

No hello, not even a good morning kiss, Desmond launched into a question: “Where’s the original flag of Castle Falgannon?”

“There are several older flags put away to preserve them. The winds are harsh here.” She slid under his free arm and kissed him a proper good morning. “After last night, the first thing the man asks about is a pennant? Ashamed you should be.”

“Where are they?” He wasn’t derailed.

“In the vault—”

“At Colford,” he growled.

“Don’t grit your teeth, Des, you’ll get a headache,” she teased. “Yes, they’re at Colford.”

“Falgannon’s history belongs on Falgannon, B.A.”

“Rather possessive—and suspiciously like a threat.” She chuckled, taking some pleasure in that Desmond was so concerned about what belonged to the island. Whether he recognized it or not, he was setting down roots. “What set you off about the pennant?”

“This flag’s wrong.”

She glanced at the pennant flapping in the breeze, studying it. It was a navy field with a gold cat rampant—inside the gold lozenge, denoting it was a lady’s flag. “What’s not right about it?”

“The cat’s missing faery wings.” He blinked, noticing she was dressed. “I was going to feed you breakfast in bed.”

“That can be arranged.” She took his hand and pulled him inside Lady Cottage. Dudley scampered after them.

A rainbow arched over the island as B.A. spotted Desmond at the castle’s crenellations, staring out at the white beach below. Though they’d whiled away the better part of the day laughing and making love, Des seemed haunted. Whatever was biting at him was coming to a head. It tore at B.A., made her wonder again what demons drove him. Panic fluttered in her chest.

She went to him, troubled by the shadows in his eyes after seeing his current series of sketches. They centered on the castle, but these were of people. The woman looked like she herself had in the medieval gown she’d worn yesterday. At first she assumed he’d gotten up during the night and drawn it while she slept. Then she saw the date. Desmond had sketched it a week ago. The other sketch was of a man with long wavy black hair and wearing chain mail and a surcoat. He stood atop the castle and in the background was a flag—the cat rampant with wings. A nontraditional heraldic symbol, denoting the
cait sidhe,
faery cats.

Desmond was drawing images from the past. To a man rooted in logic, that would be hard for him to accept. Did he even understand why he had got these flashes from the past? Her eyes studied the solitary figure, debating whether to broach the subject with him or wait until he came to her.

Desmond sensed B.A. as she approached. “You mentioned turning Rose Cottage into a honeymoon lodge.” Leaning into a crenellation, he stared down the hill to the cottage.

“I thought it’d be a lovely spot for newlyweds.”

“Don’t.”

Possessiveness boiling in his gut, Desmond didn’t want someone else in that house where he’d first made love to B.A. He knew she had to be in residence in Lady Cottage from November until the end of April, but he saw them living part-time there. “Is there a problem with that?”

She kissed his cheek. “No… I’ll make other plans.”

“I’m toying with the idea of adding on some rooms, so I could have an office.”

B.A.‘s heart leapt; he could see the erratic pulse in her neck. “That’s… doable.”

They stood in silence, enjoying the shimmering rainbow. He finally worked up enough nerve to say what was eating at him. “Ever wish you could wipe clean the slate, start over?”

“Des, you’re troubled. I’d be a fool not to see it. You awake bathed in sweat. Memories that deep hurt because you’ve buried them. Talking might help.”

“Talking
can’t
help. This month here with you… I don’t know myself anymore. I have no control.”

She stroked his arm. “No one could ever take control from you. You’re seeing life away from the glare of bright city lights. Things have different values for you than a month ago. We can’t erase the past—good or bad, it defines us, molds us. But we can change the future if we’re brave enough.”

“Yes, the past made me as I am.” He stroked the back of his hand against her cheek. “I’m unsure how to say what I want.”

Desmond lightly bit the inside of his cheek to stop the words ready to pop out. He fought himself, the selfish part of him that desperately needed B.A.‘s light in his life. It pushed him to come out and ask her to marry him, to bind her to him in every way possible, and damn whatever lay down the road. Maybe a gentleman would lay out the plans for Trident Ventures’ leases on the North Atlantic oil wells, plans that had been in motion for so long. How after the first of the year, he would be the new CEO of Trident. Admit he’d planned to use Falgannon as a base for housing, supplies and storage for the wells, changes that would destroy the perfection of this tiny island.

Perhaps he was arrogant enough to believe what was between them could see them through the worst of times. Maybe it was desperation. He knew with B.A. at his side he’d battle wizards and slay dragons. For her he could face anything, even the demons within himself.

Conceit, selfishness, fear—whatever drove him, he couldn’t pull back. He needed B.A. in his life, to know he’d be able to hold her in his arms at night come what may.

“The most direct route is the simplest. B.A., will you ma—”

A helicopter rose from behind the north side of the isle. It loomed over the hill and then swooped around the castle like some prehistoric warbird. Desmond’s stomach dropped as he saw the big M on the side. The white Sikorsky S-76C was designed for offshore oil rigs, and as the manufacturer said,
It flies like it means business
. It traveled at speeds of 175 m.p.h., could hover even in heavy crosswinds. Seating was for twelve passengers in deluxe comfort, and at its nine-million-dollar price tag, it damn well better, Desmond thought. He knew who piloted it—Julian Starkadder. Julian handled that baby as if it were an extension of himself.

Curving in a circle, Julian pointed the nose at them, hovering to make eye contact. He rakishly saluted Desmond before turning the bird toward the flat area near Rose Cottage.

“Smart enough not to chose the cairn, at least,” Desmond muttered to himself.

Cold dread filled him. Why had Julian come? A dozen scenarios flooded his mind, and none were good. He’d thought he had a few weeks, at least until New Year’s, before everything would come crashing down on his head, but time had just run out.

“M for Mershan?” B.A. said. “I’m impressed. I know the price tag on that cute little bird. Cian checked around for a used one for the island.”

The rakish, black-haired man stepped from the helicopter, removing his reflective sunglasses. His small gold hoop earring glinted as he strode up the hill to meet them.

Julian Starkadder was a throwback to a time of buccaneers and pirates. No one knew much about his past, and with black hair and hazel-green eyes, people often assumed he was a Mershan. Besides his brothers, there wasn’t a man Desmond trusted more. In some ways his bond with Julian ran deeper, since Julian had been privy to some of Desmond’s darker dealings while he’d kept Jago and Trevelyn’s hands clean.

Yes, Julian’s arrival on Falgannon spelled trouble. Desmond glanced nervously toward B.A. In the past few weeks he’d pushed aside reality. He hadn’t expected the world to intrude so soon.

Panic edged up his spine as he watched Julian walk toward them. He wanted to rage at the the possibility his idyllic time with B.A. was at end. He wanted to grab her and scream
Mine
. Instead, he stood frozen with dread.

Julian’s eyebrow arched at Desmond’s longish hair, fisherman’s knit sweater and knee boots. The other brow rose as he saw the fat cat curving around his boss’s ankle and hissing. “Des, your expression matches that rottweiler cat’s.”

Desmond felt like hissing. “Trouble?”

Julian’s countenance revealed nothing. B.A.‘s lads would be in trouble if he turned Julian loose at Thursday night poker. “Sorry, you have to come back.”

B.A. smiled and offered her hand. “Welcome to Falgannon Isle. You must be one of Desmond’s brothers. Jago?”

Turning on a high-wattage smile, he oozed charm. “Not Jago or Trevelyn. Julian Starkadder. I’m Desmond’s—”

“Personal assistant,” Desmond snapped, irritated by Julian’s effect on women.

“You favor Des.” B.A. glanced between them, trying to tune in to the nuances of their silent communication.

Julian laughed. “I’m prettier. I hate to be a bother, but could you arrange some hot coffee and sandwiches for me? We don’t have much time. I’ve been on the go most of the day. I’m starving and I’d kill for a cup of coffee.”

“Certainly.” B.A. sensed she was being dismissed. She didn’t act as if she minded. Both men’s eyes followed her up the staircase and out of sight.

Julian worried the gold hoop in his left earlobe. “Wow. Wonder if the other sisters have that same effect on a man. Standing near her is like taking a blow to the chest.”

“Want a comparison to be sure?” Desmond snapped.

Julian joked, “Your expression is as hostile as that mangy cat’s. And cats spray things when they want to mark them.”

“There are other ways of marking a woman.” Desmond eased up now that his territory was staked. “What’s the trouble? Problem with the oil rigs?”

Julian’s eyes clouded. “Your mother’s dying.”

Desmond looked around to see if he had everything. He was only taking some clothes, his briefcase and computer. His teeth gnashed as he fought himself from going to B.A. and telling her the real reason he was leaving.

He could hardly breathe. If he spoke the words, he’d shatter to a thousand pieces. He closed his eyes willing his racing heart to slow.
God, it can’t be true.

Anger and resentment against Sean Montgomerie surged again like a volcano within him. Those emotions had faded this past month. Now they were back, raw, more dangerous. Once out, there’d be no turning back. He wanted to put his fist through a wall.

Julian had apparently reached Trevelyn in London, who’d be waiting in Ireland when they landed. Jago faced the longer flights from Kentucky-to-Atlanta-to-New York, then a transatlantic to Manchester, and finally to Ireland.

Impulse was to tell B.A. the truth. But that was a mistake. She’d insist on coming with him; she was that giving. If he permitted B.A. to accompany him, he’d be torn by trying to keep things hidden from her. Her presence might cause problems with Jago and Trevelyn, even upset his mother. The mere mention of the name Montgomerie could bring on one of her panic attacks. Also, at the moment he feared the wild emotions careening inside him; the beast was about to break the chains. He didn’t want B.A. anywhere near when that happened. It wouldn’t be pretty and she didn’t deserve what might spill over onto her.

“Sorry, Des.” Julian’s eyes took in the huge oak bed and its rumpled state. “I judge you’ve been happy this past month, really happy. You’ve not had much happiness in life.”

Dudley pussyfooted in and curled around Desmond’s leg, then hissed at Julian. “Had you said that before I came here, I’d have called you crazy. I didn’t know what happy meant.” Sadly, he smiled at the fat pussycat, wishing he could stuff him in the suitcase and take him with him. Even Dudley would be a comfort in the coming days. “Yes, I’ve been happy here.”

“You’re in love with her,” Julian stated simply.

Desmond started to deny it, his typical knee-jerk male reaction. He bit back the words. “Damn me, fool that I am, yes.”

“Let nothing stand in your way, Des, especially not the past. It’s not worth losing something so rare, so special. I’d give my left arm to have a woman look at me the way she does you.”

Desmond studied his friend. “I would’ve bet you didn’t believe in love.”

“I didn’t—until I saw how B.A. looked at you and you looked at her. That’s magic. Don’t throw that away because of the past. The past is dead—” Julian flinched.

“Not quite dead.” Desmond’s resolve hardened.

“Sorry, a lousy choice of words. Revenge will leave you with nothing.
Nothing,
Des.”

“Tell that to a dying woman.” Desmond closed his eyes, feeling as if his heart was being torn asunder.

B.A. came in carrying a large thermos. “You sure you don’t want a hamper of sandwiches? It would be no trouble.”

“The one you fixed will tide me over. The coffee’s appreciated.” Julian took it from her. “It’s nice meeting you, B.A. Next time it won’t be such a rush, though you should chain up that cat. He doesn’t like strangers.”

“He welcomed Des with open arms.” She smiled, but Desmond saw her troubled eyes checking the closet to see if he’d left belongings; how she relaxed when she spotted some clothes.

“Well, I’ll go get the bird chirping.” Julian left, giving them a moment alone.