Who was she? And what was she doing here, in the chambers of the Countess of Marley?

He took an involuntary step toward her, then drew up in confusion, hastily covering that confusion with a courtly bow. His pulse was pounding in his ears, and he could not seem to think clearly. It was all he could do, as he raised his eyes to hers, to simply murmur, “My lady.”

The lady managed a shaky, hesitant attempt at a smile. “I perceive that it was not a simple hunter named Alain who rescued my coach that day at Saint Torin’s,” she said softly, her eyes as blue as the lakes of Rhendall.

“M-my lady,” Morgan whispered, casting prudence to the winds and shaking his head in wonder. “Yours was the last face I remember before oblivion claimed me on that awful day. I have seen you only once since then, and you did not see me. But in my dreams…”

His voice trailed off as he realized that he had no right to be saying these things, and the lady lowered her eyes and toyed with a fold of her gown.

“Forgive me, my lord, but I know not how to call you,” she whispered plaintively.

Kelson, finishing his dispatch, looked up with a start to see the two conversing and hurried back to join them.

“My lady, you must forgive my ill manners. I forgot that you have not made the acquaintance of His Grace, the Duke of Corwyn. Morgan, this is Lady Richenda, wife to the Earl of Marley.”

At Kelson’s allusion to the traitor, though he did not speak the name, Morgan’s stomach did a slow, queasy roll, and he had to force himself to remain outwardly calm, not to show his consternation.

Of course, she had to be Bran’s wife. What else would she be doing in this room?

Richenda of Marley…Bran Coris’s wife. What perverse quirk of fate could have brought them together on the Dhassa road only to forever part them here, within Dhassa walls? Richenda of Marley—God, how could he have been so imperceptive?

He cleared his throat nervously and bowed again in acknowledgement, further masking his discomfiture with a slight cough.

“Ah, the lady and I have already met, after a fashion, Sire. A few months ago, I helped free her ladyship’s coach from the mud outside Saint Torin’s. I was—ah—in disguise at the time. She could not have known who I was.”

“Nor he, I,” Richenda murmured, lifting her chin bravely but not meeting Morgan’s eyes.

“Oh,” said Kelson. His glance flicked from one to the other, trying to read the meaning of Morgan’s odd reaction more plainly, but then he gave it up with a bright smile.

“Well, I am pleased to hear that you were being chivalrous even in disguise, Morgan. My lady, if you will pardon us, we must take our leave of you now. My Lord Alaric and I have other duties that require our attention. Besides, I imagine that you will wish to be alone for a while now. Please do not hesitate to call on me, if I may be of any assistance.”