Chapter Forty Four

As Divers O’Roarke tore his gaze from her expression, not quite as unreadable as worn Sanskrit, but not far off of it, he only knew he needed to make his the same. He snapped his mouth--which had opened in the hope of discussing this little problem-- shut. He also leapt off the bed.

Gil. And Orwell. Well, well? To what did he owe the dubious pleasure? When he was what exactly? Dallying with a traitoress because earlier she’d talked rather nicely—for her anyway--of things that had undermined him? And she’d been, not just strangely beguiling in her trembling, haggard beauty. She’d been quite cowed. For her anyway too.

Well, at least Lyon wasn’t here, making things all manner of worse for him. He had the floor. As a man who’d tried, ye gods and their miniscule fishes, to explain his present dilemma, at that. Although he’d have liked her to understand a bit more of that dilemma, business was business.