She pulled his shirt from its tucked belted state and snaked her hands around his waist. "Sir Cecil is no more. “And where,” he asked, “are my rivals?” “Deserters,” she answered, laughing. ’ He smiled down at her. \" he replied, though it was obvious that he was lying. Never mind. ” “Possibly—bit by bit. Your pursuers are below. You need fear no interruption from him, or any of his myrmidons. Gianfrancesco took her that night gently, for which she was glad.
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