Something seemed to dredge up from the recesses of her memory and she brightened. "And the Marchioness is your daughter," added Thames. But Sheppard was not to be silenced. I did what I could to comfort her but she died in terrible pain. He was brooding over her, she could sense it, and the shadowy circles around his lovely dark eyes bespoke a terrible ongoing insomnia. He was conscious of a quickening of his heartbeat and the familiar rise of adrenalin that sent his senses soaring in anticipation. Why, that boy could hide for thirty years—without the girl.
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