The princess sank, still
weeping, into a cushioned chair. While a woman-in-waiting poured her a
cup of wine, Daymonde sat on the edge of a sofa and glanced back at
Captain Strathmuir, guarding the door of the private parlor. This was
the most privacy he could expect.
Where to begin?
While Glenmarr’s daughter sipped
and tried to compose herself, Daymonde studied her. Fiona.
Shadows lay beneath her eyes, contrasting with the absolute whiteness
of her face. A finely woven netting tamed the blaze of her hair. A dark
gown shrouded her curves—more rounded than he remembered.
She is young, but will
grow, Glenmarr had said. Indeed, she had already.
After hours of effectively
blocking everyone else’s thoughts and emotions, Daymonde surrendered to
the inevitable and unclenched his Gift. Sorrow radiated from Fiona, so
profound he nearly doubled over and wept.
“My—my lady,” he said. “I am