She felt a lump rise in her throat, for she had come to love living in America. They were exquisite. He stepped in with a heavy foreboding of calamity. ‘Would you have me face my maker with that on my conscience? If I’d died, there’d have been no one to tell you, for your father would not have done. . ’ Melusine bubbled over and warmth rose in Gerald’s chest. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. And even she was forced to admit to herself that this last resource of hers was a slender reed on which to lean.
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