. Pain sliced into Gerald’s hand and his sword arm jerked. She could smell the savory tinge of his sweat in the air. She had known that Remenham House would be deserted, for Martha—released, as she had carefully explained to her charge, by her vows to God from servitude and obedience to Nicholas Charvill, a mere mortal—had begun a correspondence with a friend of her youth, Mrs Joan Ibstock, née Pottiswick. For the sort of love-making you think about. She untucked his starched shirt, running her hands along his smooth torso and underneath his arms. “I know nothing whatever of his friends or his home. Austin, or any man of similar dimensions, would have found wholly impossible.
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