Small wonder she had learned to be self-reliant. He pushed her to his bed, little more than a cot, and pulled off her clothes. ‘That’s why I never told Joan Ibstock that you were still with me when I wrote. To the duckling, peas, and other delicacies, intended for Mr. Did he intend to kill her now, this instant? Or had she a moment or two to try to save herself? Recalling Leonardo’s dictum, she did not struggle, for that would only tighten the trap about her, and perhaps even spring it. A small voice greeted her, hissing. Surely she could ignore him. He loved the sea, and could give a good account of himself in any weather. “Perhaps for myself I do not mind, but this man is sure to find out some day, and he will not like having been deceived.
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