She dressed very slowly, making no attempt at modesty. Fury provoked her to tease him. Half of her wanted to remind him that she was not without power, small and frail though her body might be. The other half, the part barely holding down a hideous fear, desperately sought to remind this column of hard power of what they had shared, so that he might be merciful.

Admitting the fear made it branch again, shooting roots to the core of her spirit. Her hand froze in midair as she reached for the cotehardie she had chosen. She saw herself growing old in some dark chamber as these garments rotted on her body. Another image flashed in her mind, of her not old at all, being forced to kneel at a block while an ax waited.

The fear turned into unhinging terror that clouded her sight. Her stomach heaved.

A hand on her shoulder called her back, and calmed the shrieking desperation. Marcus reached for the cotehardie. He slipped it over her head and settled it on her shoulders as if she were a child.

His gentle handling broke her heart as no coldness could. Biting her lip to hold in her emotions, she clutched at the remnants of her strength.

He waited, blocking the sight of the other women, giving her time. She dared not look at him. She feared what she would see if she did. Uncompromising resolve, that she could face. Anything else, however, any hint of regret or disappointment, would tear her to pieces.

She saw him all the same, out of the corner of her eye. He still appeared sculpted of stone, but deep fires flickered in his eyes. Little lights of pain and sympathy softened the hard face of duty. In that fleeting glimpse she perceived a sad resignation that she recognized too well. He appeared much as she had felt since she finished her last design.

She squared her shoulders and gritted her teeth. Short of one of them betraying who they were, they had both known this moment would eventually come. She would not make it harder for him, and she would be damned before she let the men outside the door see her weak.

“I am ready, Marcus.”

Marcus entered the silent chapel, carrying three candles. He passed the little worktable, and approached the altar. In the glow of the single flame that burned on it, he opened the heavy, ancient tome of the Gospels that the priest used for mass.

Fanning the pages, he found what he sought. The page at the end of the Gospel of John was not filled with words. Most of it was blank.

As he reached for its top edge, he sensed a presence behind him. Not Nesta. He would know at once if she were near.

Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the old priest watching him. “So, you are back from your dying man.”

“What are you doing?”