Kitabı oku: «The Vanishing Viscountess», sayfa 3
He looked into her face, suffused with reluctance, and realised she might not be as thrilled at the prospect of sharing a bed with him as he was with her.
“I will not take advantage of you,” he said in as earnest a tone as he could muster, although his body pulsed with desire for her.
She glanced away, and again turned her eyes back to him, eyes as blue as the sky behind her. “Very well. Tonight we are husband and wife.”
He heard the unspoken end to her sentence. Tomorrow they would part. Still, his spirits soared. He would have this brief time with her and maybe wherever they were bound on the morrow would reassure him she’d be safe.
He offered her his arm. “Shall we prepare? We must concoct a story for ourselves, must we not? Names. We need to have names, and, to own the truth, I do not think Brown is a good choice.”
“Why?” she asked.
“It is the sort of name a gentleman gives to an innkeeper when he does not wish his identity known.” He winked.
She gave a light laugh. “Is that so?
“It is.” He smiled. “Select another name.”
“Smith?” A corner of her mouth lifted.
He rolled his eyes, playing along with her jest. “You are not good at this, are you?” He put his mind to the task, but the only names he could think of were ones too connected to him. Adam. Vick. Tanner. “I am hopeless as well.”
“I have an idea,” she said. “How about the name Lir? Lir is the god of the sea in Irish mythology.”
He peered at her. “You know Irish mythology?”
“I lived in Ireland.” She cast her eyes down. “I read about it in a book there.”
“How do you spell it? Like Shakespeare’s King Lear?” he asked. “Because I know how to spell that Lear. The Irish always use—well—Irish spellings.”
She gave him a look that mocked the one he’d given her. “You know Shakespeare?”
He laughed.
Her eyes twinkled. “We can spell it like King Lear.”
He smiled back at her, his heart gladdened at her mirth. Their first night together had been full of terror. This one ought to be peaceful and happy. He vowed he would make it so.
“I shall be Adam Lear, then. Adam is my given name.” He waited for her to tell him her given name—hoped she would say it, so he might have that small piece of her to keep for himself.
She said nothing.
He took a deep, disappointed breath. “I believe I need an occupation as well.”
Marlena enjoyed their short walk to the inn, and their creation of a story to tell about themselves. The Marquess of Tannerton became Mr Adam Lear, stable manager for Viscount Cavanley, Adrian Pomroy’s father, although they agreed it would be best to avoid mentioning Pomroy if at all possible.
Pomroy was another name from Marlena’s past, from that one London Season. She had not thought of Pomroy in her four years of exile in Ireland or really even three years before that, not since her Season. She remembered him as a most ramshackle young man. She and Eliza thought Pomroy was a relentless flirt, devoid of even one serious bone in his body. They’d laughed at his antics behind their fans, but neither she nor Eliza mooned over him the way they mooned over his good friend, Tanner. Even though they had been very green girls then, they knew an attachment to Pomroy would be a foolish one.
It was unfortunate that Marlena’s judgement of character had not been that astute when it came to Corland, but then, her husband had disguised his true nature. Pomroy had been as clear as glass.
As Marlena walked at Tanner’s side, she almost again felt like that carefree girl who’d enjoyed every moment of her Season. Tanner made her laugh again, something she’d not done since Eliza took ill. Marlena feared she was much too glad she would be spending another night with Tanner.
Imagine it, Eliza! she said silently. I will be married to the Marquess of Tannerton. Very briefly, however. In name only, and a false name at that.
She remembered then how warm his skin had felt, how firm his hand on her body. Her skin flushed with the memory.
She spied Mr Davies’s horse drinking water from a trough at the inn, and the truth of her situation hit her once more. She was the Vanishing Viscountess, trying desperately to vanish once more. She was not the wife of the Marquess of Tannerton nor plain Mrs Lear. She was not even Miss Brown. She was a fugitive, and if Tanner was caught aiding her, he would face the same punishment as she faced, the hangman’s noose.
She and Eliza had not known that fact when Marlena had fled to Ireland with her friend and became her children’s governess. Once in Ireland, they had read a newspaper that described the penalty for aiding the Vanishing Viscountess, but Eliza had refused to allow Marlena to leave.
Tanner squeezed her hand as they walked in the door of the inn. “How are you faring, Mrs Lear?”
“A bit nervous, Mr Lear,” she replied. At the moment, more nervous for him than for her. She stood to earn life from this masquerade. He risked death.
“We shall do very nicely,” he said.
She pulled him back, “Tanner,” she whispered.
He gave her a warning look. “It is Adam.”
She bit her lip. She must not make such a mistake again. “Do not act like the marquess.”
He gave her a puzzled look.
“Do not order people about,” she explained.
He tilted his head, appearing very boyish. “Do I order people about?”
She nodded.
The innkeeper approached them. “Good day to you! Are you the lady and gentleman from the shipwreck?”
Mr Davies had indeed been talking of them.
“We are,” said Tanner, his affability a bit strained. “And we are in need of a room for the night.”
“If we may,” added Marlena.
“If we may,” repeated Tanner.
The innkeeper smiled. “We will make you comfortable, never fear. If you are hungry, we are serving dinner in the taproom. We have some nice pollack frying. You must let it be our gift to you for your ordeal.”
Marlena was touched by this kindness.
“We thank you,” said Tanner. He laughed. “I confess, a tall tankard of ale would be very welcome.”
The innkeeper walked over and clapped him on the shoulder. “Ale it is. For you, m’lady—?”
“Lear.” She cleared her throat. “Mrs Lear. I should like a glass of cider, if you have it.”
“We do indeed,” said the innkeeper.
Soon they were seated, drinks set in front of them. Marlena glimpsed Mr Davies, who gave them a sidelong look before slipping off his chair and walking to the door.
A woman wearing a bright white apron and cap walked over. “I am Mrs Gwynne. Welcome to our inn. My husband said you had arrived. From the shipwreck, are you?”
“We are.” Tanner extended his hand. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Gwynne.”
“You poor lambs.” She clasped his hand.
“Have you heard of any other survivors?” Marlena asked.
The woman clasped Marlena’s hand next. “Not a one, but if you made it, others may have as well, God willing. Now, what can we do for you? Besides giving you a nice room and some food, that is. What do you need?”
Tanner rubbed his chin, even darker with beard than it had been that morning. Marlena suppressed a sudden urge to touch it.
“All we have is what you see,” he told Mrs Gwynne. “Is there a shop where we might purchase necessities?”
She patted his arm. “There certainly is a shop; if you tell me what you want, I will purchase it for you.”
“That will not be necessary. I will visit the shop.” Tanner glanced at Marlena and back to Mrs Gwynne. “I have thought of something else you might do, however.”
“Say what it is, Mr Lear. I’ll see it done.”
His gaze rested softly on Marlena. “A bath for my wife.”
Marlena’s mouth parted. There was nothing she could more desire.
Mrs Gwynne smiled again. “I will tell the maids to start heating the water.”
She bustled away and soon they were brought a generous and tasty dinner of fish, potatoes and peas. After they ate, Mrs Gwynne showed them to their room, a chamber dominated by a large, comfortable-looking bed. There was also a fire in the fireplace and a nice window looking out at the back of the inn. The best part, however, was the large copper tub half-filled with water.
“There are towels next to the tub, and a cake of soap. The maids are still bringing the water, and one will assist you if you like.” Mrs Gwynne folded her arms over her considerable chest.
“Thank you,” Marlena rasped, her gaze slipping to Tanner.
“I’ll leave you now,” the older woman said. “Mr Lear, when you wish to go to the shop, either my husband or I can direct you.”
“I will be down very soon,” he said.
After the innkeeper’s wife left, Marlena walked over to the tub and dipped her fingers into the warm water.
“Am I sounding like a marquess?” Tanner asked.
She smiled at him. “You are doing very well.”
He blew out a breath and walked towards her. “That is good. I confess, I am uncertain how not to sound like a marquess, but if I am accomplishing it, I am content.” His eyes rested on her. “I should leave, so you can have your bath.”
She lifted her hand and touched him lightly on the arm. “Thank you for this, Lord Tannerton.”
“Adam,” he reminded her, his name sounding like a caress.
“Adam,” she whispered.
His eyes darkened and he seemed to breathe more deeply. He glanced away from her. “What ought I to purchase for you?”
She thought the bath more than enough. “A comb, perhaps? A brush? Hairpins?”
He smiled. “I shall pretend I am an old married man who often is sent to the shop for hairpins. Anything else?”
She ought not to ask him for another thing. “Gloves?”
“Gloves.” He nodded.
There was a knock on the door and he crossed the room to open it. It was the maid bringing more water.
She poured it into the tub. “I’ll bring more.” She curtsied and left.
“I will leave now, as well.” Tanner opened the door and turned back to her. “Save me the water.”
Marlena crossed the room to him. “Forgive me. I did not think. You must have the water first. I will wait.”
He reached up and touched her cheek. “You first, Mrs Lear.”
By the time she could breathe again, he was gone.
Arlan Rapp trudged down the Llanfwrog road to the blacksmith shop. A huge barrel-chested man, twice the Bow Street Runner’s size and weight, hammered an ingot against his anvil. The clang of the hammer only added to the pain throbbing in Rapp’s ears. He’d walked from one side of Llanfwrog to the other, but few villagers were even willing to admit to knowing of the shipwreck. He’d recognised plenty of them from when what was left of his boat washed up to shore. The villagers had grabbed crates and barrels. A few had been good enough to aid the survivors. He’d been whisked off to the inn, he and the others who had washed up with him.
He waited to speak until the smithy plunged the piece of metal into water. “Good day to you, smithy,” Rapp said.
The man looked up. “Do you require something?”
Rapp smiled, although his fatigue made him feel anything but cordial. “Only a bit of information.”
The blacksmith just stared at him.
Rapp cleared his throat. “I am from the packet ship that was wrecked last night.”
No understanding showed on the smithy’s face, but Rapp doubted anyone in Llanfwrog was ignorant of the previous night’s bounty.
He went on. “I am searching for survivors, specifically a woman who had been my companion.”
“I know nothing of it,” the man said.
“Perhaps you have heard talk,” he persisted. “Perhaps someone told you of survivors. I am most eager to learn her fate.”
The blacksmith shook his head. He took another piece of glowing metal from the fire.
“I would pay for information,” Rapp added, although he much preferred not to part with his still-damp money.
The smith placed the hot metal on the anvil and picked up his hammer. “Bodies wash ashore sometimes.”
That was a grisly thought, but if the Viscountess’s body washed up on shore, he could cease his search and go home to his wife.
“Where would bodies be taken?” Rapp asked, but the smithy’s hammer started again and its din drowned out his words. He gave up.
No sooner had he walked out of the blacksmith shop than a smudged-face boy tugged on his coat. “I can show you bodies, if you want to see ’em.”
Rapp squatted down to eye level with the little eavesdropper. “Can you now?”
The boy nodded energetically. “About ten or so.”
Rapp took a breath and stood, squaring his shoulders. “Excellent, my good fellow. Take me there now.” A few minutes of unpleasantness might mean he could be in London within a few days and still receive his reward.
“It’ll cost you tuppence,” the boy said.
Smart little cur, Rapp thought sourly. He fished the coin from his pocket and showed it to the boy. “Take me to the bodies and a tuppence you shall have.”
Chapter Four
Tanner’s shopping expedition proved to be a novel experience. He’d never shopped for ladies’ hairpins before, nor any of his own necessities, for that matter. He typically sent his valet to procure things like razors and shaving brushes and polish for shoes and combs and toothbrushes. He dawdled in the shop for as long as he could to give Miss Brown time for her bath. The shopkeepers and two other customers were full of questions about the shipwreck, unknown to this village before Davies brought news of it. He practised being Mr Lear, although he could answer few questions about how much salvage had washed ashore.
When he left the shop and stopped for another tankard of ale in the taproom, the patrons there had more questions. The extra alcohol made him mellow and, while he talked, a part of his mind wandered to how Miss Brown might appear in the bath, how slick her skin would be, how scented with soap.
Because he had little information about the shipwreck, interest in him waned quickly. He drank more ale in solitude, if not peace. There was nothing peaceful about imagining Miss Brown in the bath. When he eventually carried the packages up the flight of stairs to the room he would share with her, his eagerness to see her made it difficult for him to keep from taking the steps two at a time. He walked down the hall to the door and, balancing the packages in one arm, knocked.
“Come in,” she said.
He paused, took a breath, and opened the door.
She was dressed and seated in a chair by the fireplace, pressing a white towel to her long mahogany brown hair. He inhaled the scent of soap and wanted nothing more than to embrace her, soft and warm and clean.
“You are back,” she said in a breathless voice.
He felt equally as robbed of air. “I tried to give you ample time.”
She twisted the towel around her hair. “I fear you have waited too long. The water has gone quite cold.”
He smiled at her. “It cannot be as cold as what we’ve already experienced.”
She shuddered. “No, it cannot.” Her eyes lifted to his and held him there.
He mentally shook himself loose from her. It was either do that or do something foolish. “The packages,” he said, carrying them over to the table in the corner. He unwrapped one and brought it to her. “I suspect you would like these now.” He handed her the brush and comb he had purchased.
They were crafted from simple tortoiseshell. Tanner thought of how many sets of silver brushes and combs he’d had his former secretary, Flynn, purchase for his mistresses. There was nothing so fine in the Cemaes shop, but Miss Brown’s eyes glowed with excitement when she took the items from his hands.
“Oh, how wonderful,” she cried. “I can comb out the tangles and brush my hair dry.”
No gift he ever gave a mistress had been so gratefully received. He grinned, pleased he had pleased her. She was too busy working the comb through her hair to see.
Tanner strolled over to the tub and felt the water, now on the very cold side of tepid. At home, his valet would be hovering with pots of hot water to add, making certain his bath remained warm from start to finish.
She rose from her chair, still holding the comb. “I could ask Mrs Gwynne for more hot water.”
They faced each other over the tub and it took Tanner a moment to remember to speak. “You cannot go out with your hair wet.”
“I shall put it in a quick plait,” she assured him. “I will need to go out anyway so that you can bathe.”
He could not help gazing at her. It took time for him to compose another thought, that thought being he did not wish her to leave. “Will not the Gwynnes think it odd that Mrs Lear walks to the public rooms with wet hair?” He reached over and fingered a lock, marvelling at how it already shaped itself in a curl. “They would not expect you to leave your husband merely because he bathes.”
She held his gaze, and he fancied her mind working again, mulling over this latest puzzle.
“I believe you are correct.” Her eyes were large and round. “I shall position my chair so that my back is to you, and I will comb my hair with the lovely comb you have purchased for me.”
With resolution, she marched back to her chair and set it to face the fireplace. Tanner watched her pull the comb through her hair, wishing it was his fingers doing the task.
He shrugged out of his coat and waistcoat and laid them on the bed. Sitting next to them, he removed his boots and stockings. As he pulled his shirt from his trousers, he watched Miss Brown totally absorbed in combing her hair.
He laughed.
Her comb stilled. “What amuses you?”
He had not realised he’d laughed aloud. “Oh, I was merely thinking that when I’m in the company of a woman, undressing is usually a quite different prospect.”
She paused for a moment and then began combing again. “Have you been in the company of so many women, Tanner?”
He faced her, naked and aroused and wishing she would turn and see the evidence of his desire for her. He wished she would come to him and let him make love to her right at this moment, to the devil with bathing.
Such thoughts were dangerous. He’d promised her he would not touch her. “I have known enough women, I suppose,” he mumbled instead, padding over to the tub, cringing as he tested the water again.
Again she hesitated before speaking. “I suppose you have lots of mistresses.”
He frowned at her assumption of him. “I assure you I am quite a success.” His attempt at a joke fell flat to his ears. Truth was, he tended to be involved with only one woman at a time, and none but the briefest of encounters in this last year. At the moment he was wondering what the appeal had been in any of them.
She cleared her throat. “Are there towels folded nearby? And the soap?”
He walked around the tub to see them. “I’ve found them.”
Bracing himself, he put one leg in the water, which was as cold as he expected. He forced himself to put the other leg in and began lowering the rest of him, making the water splash loudly in the room.
“Ye gods!” He shot up again when the water hit the part of him most sensitive to temperature. “Ah!” he cried again as he lowered himself a second time, but now it was because his ribs hurt from jumping up so fast.
“It is too cold,” Miss Brown said. “I knew I ought to have sought hot water.”
“It is tolerable,” he managed through the pain and the chill.
He picked up the soap and lathered himself as quickly as he could, grateful for having had the foresight to do a fairly decent job of washing his hair that morning. In his rush, the soap slipped out of his hand and fell into the water. He fished around for it, making a lot of noise doing so. When he finally caught it and lifted it out of the water, it slipped from his hand again, this time clattering to the floor and sliding too far away to reach.
“Deuce,” he muttered.
“You’ve dropped the soap?” she asked from her seat facing the fireplace.
“Yes.” This was a damned odd conversation to have when naked with a woman. “It is of no consequence. I believe I am clean enough.”
She stood. “I will fetch it for you.”
“It is not necessary, I assure you.” he told her.
“I do not mind.”
Before he could stop her, she turned to face him. Their gazes caught, but she lowered her lashes and searched for the soap, picking it up and bringing it to him. He quickly glanced down to see how much of himself he was revealing at this moment. The water was too cloudy to see anything.
“There you are.” She placed the bar of soap in his hand as calmly as if she’d been handing him his hat and gloves. After wiping her hand on a nearby towel, she returned to her chair and resumed combing her hair.
Tanner guessed he was as claret-faced as she’d been unflappable. “You are not missish, are you, Miss Brown?”
“Mrs Lear,” she corrected. “And you are correct. I am too old to be missish.”
“Old,” he repeated. “How old are you exactly?”
She chose another lock of hair to work the comb through. “Now that is a question no woman wishes to answer.”
He shot back. “As old as all that, then?”
She turned her head to him and smiled. “I am twenty-five.”
“Good God,” he cried in an exaggerated voice. “You are in your dotage!”
She laughed. “And you, sir, are teasing.”
He liked the sound of her laughter. He also liked that she was not prone to blushes and foolishness like that. He never could abide the young misses who flocked to London during the Season, looking for husbands when they’d barely been let off leading strings. Miss Brown was ever so much more interesting.
He turned back to his bathing, frowning at what it might mean that she was not missish. What was her experience of men, then?
He realised he was merely sitting in the water, which was turning him into gooseflesh.
“I warn you, I am about to rise from this bath and stand up in all my glory.” He started to rise, but stopped. “You may wish to look, seeing as you are not missish.”
He tried to make it sound like a jest, although he wanted her to look at him with a desire matching his own of her.
Because of the cold water, however, a part of him was not showing to its greatest advantage. In fact, it had no glory at all.
“I’ll look away,” She kept her back to him while he dried himself and donned his shirt and trousers.
“It feels glorious to be clean, does it not?” she said.
“Indeed,” he agreed, pressing his hand to his ribs. “But I would be happier if I had a clean shirt.” He picked up one of the packages and walked over to the bureau upon which sat a mirror, a pitcher and a bowl.
She switched to the hairbrush and turned around again. “It must be wretched wearing the same shirt.”
He smiled at her. “It is not that bad. It merely smells like the devil.” He rubbed his chin. “I suppose I shall have to shave myself. Now that is a wretched prospect.”
He unwrapped the package and took out a shaving cup, brush and razor. She picked up the soap and brought it to him, her long dark hair falling about her shoulders in soft waves. He wanted to touch it again. In fact, he wanted to grab a fistful of it.
Their gazes caught for a second when she handed him the soap. She lowered her eyes and walked back to her chair.
He took a deep breath and started to lather his face. “It is a fortunate thing my valet developed a toothache on the day we were to leave for Dublin.”
“I meant to ask you if anyone accompanied you,” she said in a sober voice.
“No one.” Thank God, because he did not wish to have more lives on his conscience. Chin and cheeks lathered, he turned away from the mirror to look at her.
“I am glad of it,” she murmured.
“I am as well,” he responded.
He turned back to the mirror and scraped at his beard. “Pomroy and I once went two weeks without shaving.” He made another stroke with the razor. “We went to one of my hunting lodges, but it rained like the devil. There was nothing to do so we drank great quantities of brandy and grew beards.”
She giggled. “I wonder you had the energy for it.”
“We wagered to see who could grow the longest beard in two weeks.” He smiled. “I won it.”
“Who was charged with measuring?”
“Our poor valets.” He laughed. “We made them switch.” He twirled his finger for emphasis. “Pomroy’s valet measured my beard and my valet measured Pomroy’s. It made the two men very nervous.”
He scraped at his cheek some more until his face was nearly clean of soap, except for tiny lines here and there. He rinsed off with the clean water and dried his face.
He presented himself to her. “How did I do?”
To his surprise, she reached up to stroke his face. “You did well,” she murmured.
The part of him that had retreated during his bath retreated no more. He leaned closer to her, so close he saw the lines of light and dark blue in her eyes. Her hand stilled, but her fingers still touched his cheek.
He wanted to breathe her name into the decreasing space between them, if only he knew it.
There was a loud knock on the door.
“Deuce,” he murmured instead.
He walked to the door. “Who is it?”
“It is Mrs Gwynne, lamb. If you are finished with your bathing, we’ve come to fetch the tub.”
He glanced over to Miss Brown. She nodded.
“You may fetch the tub.” He opened the door.
Removing the bath was almost as laborious as filling it had been. The maids had to make several trips. The towels were gathered up for laundering and, when all this was accomplished, Mr Gwynne appeared to carry the copper tub out of the room. Mrs Gwynne remained the whole time, chatting in her friendly way, pleased, Tanner suspected, that she had made her guests so happy.
“Now,” the innkeeper’s wife went on. “If you would care to come to the taproom, we have a nice supper. We also could give you a private parlour for dining. Or, if you prefer, we’ll bring the food to you here.”
“It shall be as my wife desires.” He turned to Miss Brown.
As his wife desires, Marlena repeated to herself, her heart pounding at the way his voice dipped low when he spoke the word wife. He spoke the word softly, intimately, as if he had indeed kissed her as he had been about to do. Her whole body tingled with excitement.
“I should like to stay here,” Marlena responded.
She did not want to break this spell, this camaraderie between them, this atmosphere that had almost led to a kiss.
“We are commanded, Mrs Gwynne.” Tanner smiled at the woman.
Marlena enjoyed Tanner’s teasing manner. She and Eliza had not known of his good humour all those years ago, something that would undoubtedly have given them more to sigh over. Now his light-heartedness made her forget she was running for her life.
Mrs Gwynne said, “We shall be back directly.”
After she left, Marlena asked, “Did you truly agree, Tanner? With having supper here in the room?”
He walked back to her, and lowered himself in the chair adjacent to the one she had been sitting in. He winced as he stretched out his long legs. “I wanted to do what you wanted.”
She did not miss that his sides still pained him.
“It is just that my hair is not yet dry,” she rattled on. “And I do not wish to put it up yet.” And also that she liked being alone with him in this temporary haven.
“You do not have to convince me. Your desire of it is sufficient.” His eyes rested softly upon her.
Her desires had never been sufficient for her husband to do what she asked. Early in her marriage she’d learned that Corland’s desires took precedence and that she must do what he wanted or he would be in a foul mood. Later in their three-year marriage, she had not cared enough to attempt to please him.
It occurred to her that she had been on the run for as long as she had been married. In a way, Corland still directed her life. It was a mystery to her why Wexin had killed Corland, but because of it, she was on the run.
Marlena fiddled with the brush in her hands, disliking the intrusion of Corland and Wexin in her time with Tanner.
How would it have felt if Tanner had, indeed, kissed her?
It had been so long since a man had kissed her. Corland’s ardour for her, mild at best, had cooled after the first year of their marriage, after her money had dwindled and his debts increased. After she discovered his many peccadilloes. Actresses, ballet dancers, their housemaid.
Her last sight of her husband flashed into her mind, lying face up on the bed, eyes gaping sightlessly, naked body covered in blood.
She shuddered and glanced at Tanner, so gloriously alive, so masculine even as he slouched in his chair.
His expression had sobered. “What is it?”
She blinked. “I do not understand what you mean.”
He gestured towards her. “You were thinking of something. Something disturbing, I’d wager.”
She averted her gaze. “Nothing, I assure you.”
When she glanced back at him, he frowned, and the peaceful, intimate feelings she’d had a moment before fled.
All she need do was think of Corland and clouds thickened.
There had been a time when she blamed all her woes on her husband. He was to blame for many things—his gambling, his debts, his affairs—but he would never have done to her what her own cousin had done. Who could have guessed Wexin was capable of such treachery?
Was Wexin still among Tanner’s friends? she wondered. If she had so difficult a time believing what her cousin had done, surely Tanner would not believe it.
“Do not be angry with me, Tanner,” she murmured.
His brows rose in surprise. “I am not angry.” He gave her a very intent look. “I merely wish you would tell me what cloud came over you. Tell me your secrets. Trust me. I know I will be able to fix whatever is wrong.”
She shook her head.
“Then at least tell me your name,” he persisted, putting that teasing tone back into his voice, but still looking at her with serious eyes. “Tell me your given name. I gave you mine. Adam. When we are private together, let me address you with one name that belongs to you.”
